Fountain of Youth
by Jacques Cartwright
Summary: What caused Agent Sands to end up in Mexico? The answer is actually quite simple: he did, because Sands plays the game by rules he set up a long time ago.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Sands, yada yada, everyone knows.

Chapter One: Subtle Annoyances

"I knew a man once, kept a fish as a pet in a pond he had in his backyard."

I wasn't really listening, but that never kept Steadman from telling me stories I couldn't give a good Goddamn about.

"Whenever this guy was bored, he'd go down to the pond, and he would catch and re-catch this fish for fun, ya see?"

I adjusted my sunglasses: the light coming through the window to my left being naggingly bright, and humored him It had been one of those mornings where I couldn't remember where I was when I woke up, despite being sober enough when I'd gone to sleep. I hated that, and it had been happening more frequently.

"So eventually, this fish can't catch anything anymore, you know why?"

"Because fish are fucking stupid," I said, leaning back in my side of the booth table. His stalling was getting on my nerves.

Steadman shook his head. "No," he told me. "Because its lips are so full of holes from the hook that anything it catches just swims right back out. It has to go for the bait, because it's the only thing it can catch."

I smirked with sarcastic amusement. "You're full of useless bullshit stories, you know that, Steadman?"

He just smiled and took a drink of his coffee, trying to look me in the eyes but just getting the blue reflection off the lenses. I leaned forward on the table.

"Do you know why old people retire to Florida?" I asked.

Steadman just shrugged. "It's warm."

"They're instinctually searching for the fountain of youth. See, you don't know everything," I said, shrugging my hands into the air.

He laughed, and I gave him an empty grin, waiting for him to stop.

"Now, if your story is supposed to be some sort of half-assed metaphor about our relationship, than you obviously don't know me that well. As it goes, you are not the only man I can go to for information, you're just the easiest to kill if anything goes wrong, and right now I think I'd rather execute you in the back alley and find another source than have to listen to another one of your asinine stories."

He was still smiling, but I could see that now there was some questioning behind it. I gave him a minute to think on this, then laughed deliberately. His worry faded. Everyone had always told be I should be an actor.

"But seriously," I said, my face once again straight. I held my hand like a loosely gripped pistol aimed in the general vicinity of his eyes. "We know you're full of shit, but I'm not. So, tell me what I want to know or: '_bang_ _bang_.'"

He sat up straight and I realized I'd finally gotten his mind back to business.

"Alright, alright. They went to some place called Del Rio, near San Antonio."

I cringed on the inside. I fucking hate Texas. Throwing away my imaginary weapon, I stood up and indicated to the approaching waitress that Steadman was paying. Subtly adjusting my shoulder holster, I stepped out into the late summer heat of a New Orleans morning.

What a terrible vacation.

My feet touched down in Texas in a new pair of black _Great Western Boot Co_. cowboy boots, size 12. I wore a shirt cut in the western style and my black jeans too clean and unfaded to be over a week old. I kept my sunglasses. Damnably sunny in Texas. It's become my policy to dress like a tourist when on business. They're generally ignored by everyone but beggars and greatly underestimated in the intelligence sector. It always helps to be underestimated. Stretching my back, I picked up the single check bag I had and strolled out of the airport like just another twit there to see the Alamo. Honestly, it hasn't been worth seeing since they patched up the cannon holes. People have no respect for history.

Enter stage right.

I took my sidearm from the carry on and tucked it into the back of my waistband while leaning against the wall outside in front of the pick-up lane and nobody even noticed.. My I.D. had gotten it on the plane without difficulty. Having a badge almost makes airports feel like they did before the 1980s, only you still can't smoke. Modern planes are hard to get used to. Being encased in metal miles above land or sea can be very surreal. Even at takeoff, when you see the lines of paint and posts in the fences shooting by at faster and faster succession it's hard to really believe what's happening. Open-air machines are far more convincing. Cars were more fun to get into, especially convertibles.

As soon as I got in the taxi I remembered one of the reasons why I hate Texas. The driver had the radio tuned to some local country station, and after I gave him the name of the motel I wanted to be taken to, I had to hum out Toby Keith with Johnny Cash. If there's anything more annoying than the popular shit they classify as country these days we've probably made it illegal. What I really wanted to do was push my gun up to his head and make him find a decent station, but there's no reason to attract attention already.

When I emerged from the taxi I stood only minutes from the River Walk and the Alamo. The smell of cooling asphalt filled my nose and actually brightened my mood a bit. The sun had begun its descend already, but sunsets are leisurely in the lower longitudes and I figured I had a good two hours before the light would give up the ghost for the night. The hotel was one of those yellow colored stucco deals with the roofs that look like broken pottery. After checking in, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed a number I hadn't used in years. It was about time I meet up with an old friend.


	2. Chapter 2

There's a tip of the hat to another writer's short in here, just want to give credit where credit's due. Unfortunately, I can't find it. Something about Sands killing a computer. If anyone knows what it is, please tell me so I can edit it in here later.

Chapter 2: Remember the Alamo

Alex Brody awoke from a catnap when the cell in his pocket began to vibrate. He found he'd gotten used to a nap before dinner since retiring from the Company several months before. Fumbling at his pocket, which and become harder to get into while in a sitting position because of the growing tire around his waist (yet another thing he'd gotten since retiring). Finally, he tugged the little electronic from his jeans. It vibrated one more time between his fingers as he read a somewhat familiar number, but not familiar enough for the phone to supply a name. He hit the talk button.

"Hello?" He hadn't been expecting a call.

"Alexander the Great, this is-"

"Sands?" It only took is mind a second to recognize the voice.

A heavy sigh issued from the phone. "You never let me finish, you fuckmook."

"Sands!" He stood up like a scorpion had stung him on the ass. "You still owe me a drink you SOB!"

"Tsk. Is that any way greet an old friend?"

Friend? Yes, at the farm, but when they'd been paired up as partners it didn't take long to realize Sands was a solo kind of Agent. Oh, the mission had been a success, sure, but Brody had been so bothered by the way Sands had executed it that he'd asked to be put with a new partner. Agent Sands didn't think linearly, he was overly secretive about what he knew to the point where it became hard to know whose side he was on, and the risks he took made Brody wonder if he if he were a genius, or simply insane. After their break they didn't see each other for months, but when they finally ran into each other again Sands had acted as if nothing had happened. Brody never brought it up.

"Where have you been you lazy bastard?"

This brought Brody back from his thoughts. "Retired," he reminded him.

"That's no excuse. CIA never retire-"

"Yeah, they just get shot in the knee and gain forty pounds."

He heard Sands chuckle and it reminded him of those better times with the man. Sands was much more tolerable when not on a mission, in fact, he was quite a lot of fun.

"That's the Agent I know, always bitching about old wounds. What say you get off your lazy ass and hobble on down to the Riverwalk."

"Brody was momentarily stupefied. "Why?"

"Why do you think?" came the reply.

It hit Brody that Sands must be in San Antonio. "Right! Where and when?"

The main stairs on the Alamo side at eight-thirty, savvy?"

"Copy. See you there."

"Thada boy."

Brody hung up and went inside from the porch he'd been napping on for his boots and a clean shirt. This was good. He needed to get out more. He'd been in the gutter since Helen left him.

Brody strolled by the Alamo through the clouds of tourist groups. He didn't notice the solitary man looking up at the old mission until he heard Sands say, "Why do we want everything to look so pretty?" Brody jumped. He hadn't recognized his ex-partner with his back turned to him. Sands had always had a creepy 6th sense of knowing what was going on around him without having to look. He continued to stare at the mission with a strange tired expression.

"How does he do that?" Brody mumbled to himself before turning and stepping up next to Sands to look at the Alamo as well. "What're you talking about?" he asked after a minute of silent observation.

Sands snapped out of his personal reverie and slapped Brody on the shoulder. "So gimp, how've you been?" he asked, ignoring the question.

"Fine," he lied. "What're you doing in San Antonio?"

"Time off for good behavior," Sands replied.

"I doubt that."

Sands gave one of his predatorial grins, which made Brody a little worried no matter what the mood or situation.

"Personal leave. Just needed a break."

The Sands Brody knew never needed time off, but he didn't press the issue, like previously stated, he was secretive and Brody didn't want to get pulled into anything.

He only nodded and they made their way to dinner on the Riverwalk.

Ten-o-clock saw them both with four shots of tequila. Sands popped a lime slice out of his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"So how have you really been you terrible fucking liar?"

"Terrible liars don't get to join the CIA," Brody corrected.

"Most aren't tested by _me_," Sands replied matter of factly.

"Oh? And who are you exactly?"

Sands folded his arms on the table and looked Brody in the eye. "I'm Agent Sheldon Jeffery Sands, and nobody gets away with lying to me."

"'Cept maybe a nice piece of ass."

Sands smirked. "Well, there is that." His expression went straight again. "But stop avoiding the question."

Brody took another shot of tequila before answering. "Bored as hell," he admitted.

"Of course you're bored. You're an Agent retired before his time. You had fifteen good years of action left in you, but now all you've got is a knee blown to fucking Broadway and an empty house. You probably jack off five times a day out of boredom." Sands took his shot to match Brody's and ordered a glass of straight rum no ice. Brody grimaced.

"You know why I really have time off?" Sands asked, tipping his tan fedora up more on his forehead to look as the waitress who was placing the drink down in front of him.

This piqued Brody's interest and his expression must have reflected it because Sands went on with complete seriousness. "I shot a computer monitor multiple times."

Brody pictured the scene in his head and began to laugh.

"The mother fucker froze up in me in the middle of a case report for the second time, so I whipped out the gun and blew that Goddamn thing all to hell. Extremely therapeutic." He took a swig of rum and smiled like an all-knowing Cheshire cat. "They told me I should take some time off. I told them I needed something more stimulating to do than paper pushing."

Brody couldn't stop laughing at the idea of Sands killing a computer. He must have done it in a completely casual fashion, or a all out rage, because there was rarely an in-between with Agent Sands.

"People didn't curse in offices before computers came long. I think I did them a favor." He stood up, heading toward the bathroom leaving barely a sip of rum left in his glass, giving Brody a minute to catch his breath.

The bar, which was at the head of the Riverwalk, was set into the bank like so many of the other establishments in the outdoor mall. From their table, Brody could see the occasional tourist raft on the river as they tried to find a setting on their cameras that would work in the half-light. Palm trees reached into the night as the illuminated city blocked out most stars. Brody's house was in the city suburbs, where less light pollution kept out the heavens. The smell of fried food and river drifted in through the front door with the light breeze outside and Brody watched the colorful tourists parade their tanned bodies in the attempt of attracting a mate. God, to be that young again.

Sands returned and leaned over the table toward Brody before sitting down. "That bathroom is a dive," he said. He'd changed clothes before meeting up in front of the Alamo and the brown sports jacket he had on hung open to reveal a chocolate colored t-shirt with yellow text that read _"Remember the Alamo?"_ across it.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Brody asked as Sands dropped into his seat and finished his rum.

"Means there's probably a dried layer of piss on every surface in that hole," he answered.

"No, I mean your shirt. Why the hell is there a question mark on it?"

Sands looked down at his shirt, pulling it out a little to read the words. "Oh." He let it settle back onto his chest. "How many people do you think actually know what happened there?" He finished his rum in one swallow and motioned for more along with another tequila for Brody.

"I thought everyone knew what happened at the Alamo."

"That's because this is your home town. I don't think most Americans can name all fifty states. Ask a tourist who hasn't been on the tour yet and they'll probably say we _won_, they'll have no clue that 'Remember the Alamo' was a war-cry for revenge, just like 'Remember the Maine.'" Sands sighed. "Not that it matters though. I always sided with Santa Anna anyway. I'm all for creative sportsmanship, but Polk was a fat shit.

Brody was lost by now. That last tequila had brought them all home and he'd never been much of a drinker. He was surprised Sands was still able to hold this single train of thought after all the drink he'd had in the past hour. At the same time though, it was Sands, so he could be off his ass and just not showing it. He could drink a fish under the table, then catch the damned thing with his bare hands.

There was one thing that had him worried though, and that was the frequent flash in the man's eyes that Brody had first recognized back at the Farm, in training, and later on their first mission.

Sands was feeling reckless.

In less than an hour, a pair of loud tourist college boys came in with a girl between them. They chose to sit at the bar directly behind Sands chair. Brody could see the humor draining from Sands' face as the boys bellowing voices drowned out their conversation. Then, the last straw: a song came on using clips from a Bush speech that were not being used in an ironic manner. Brody watched as Sands' jaw clinched. As if fate wanted to see a frost tipped, baseball cap wearing head in the gutter that night, one of the boys bashed into the back of Sands' chair without apology.

"Why don't we go?" Brody suggested.

A second bang. Sands stood up in one quick and smooth movement. The chair-back caught the perpetrator square in the spine and sent him chin first into the bar.

"Ah, what the hell, dude?" the uninjured twenty-something said, attempting to grab Sands by the shoulder. But Sands turned on his own.

Brody groaned in despair.

"Sorry," Sands said with obvious insincerity. "Was that annoying?"


	3. Just a Little Release

Chapter 3: Just a Little Release

Punishing these annoying young bastards would be a justifiable way of getting some of my restlessness out. Let's be honest, I was on vacation after all and I felt I deserved to treat myself.

The young man who I'd sent into the bar top straightened up and slapped away the hand of the girl, who wanted to see if he was hurt. After fighting off her attentions he turned to me and proceeded to think it was wise to poke me in the chest. "You _will_ be sorry-"

I grabbed his finger and bent it backward, watching his face distort. "That's real original, Shakespeare."

The other, slightly taller, wearing a _Tommy Hilfinger_ t-shirt, drew back a fist. I released the finger and picked up the chair just in time to glance his knuckles off the wood on the back.

He yelped.

I turned toward the door, knowing full well they'd follow.

Sure enough: 'Whadda ya think you're doin', man, you can't just leave now, you're in it too deep."

I smirked, kept walking, tossing a middle finger over my shoulder to ensure their pursuit.

Brody tried to run intercept outside the door, but nobody was listening and I waved him off. "It'll be fine," I added. He backed off, looking disapprovingly at us. He made a good Watson, bless him.

It was cool outside, which helped to clear my senses. Things were dancing slightly, which would make this more interesting. The fish and water smell of the river conjured up memories of plenty of past fights. I just had to make sure this didn't run too long. After all, we weren't isolated, the powers that be wouldn't like finding out I wasn't just battling computers these days. I sized them up as they came around portside. I turned to face them. Both were taller than me, with more meat on them, but also more drink showing in their eyes as well. Drunks fall hard.

I grinned at them.

The girl had backed off. She stood several feet away, her hands at her mouth.

"I usually wouldn't fight a guy two times my age, but you're just asking for it," Finger told me.

"How Chivalrous."

"You're a bit small for us."

"Do me a favor," I said, bending my arms and bringing my elbows together in front of my chest. "Do this."

They looked at me funny, then actually did it. Neither could get them closer than an inch apart, and they were straining. I laughed.

"Oh golly, that's golden, boys."

They threw down their arms in a huff and_ Hilfinger_ took a step toward me. "You asked for it, pops."

"That's right," I answered. I couldn't believe they thought forty was old.

_Hilfinger_ charged first, in the usual inexperienced fashion. The surge of adrenaline hit my veins. I stepped to the side at the last conceivable moment and gave him a good right hook directly in the armpit. You should have heard that war cry turn to the sound of an injured dog. Beautiful. I hadn't done hand to hand in a while, but this proved it wouldn't be much of a challenge.

"Fuck!" he whined. "Fuck! You bastard!"

I turned to face him, making sure I still had his friend in my peripheral. "How'd you know?" I asked. He looked a little confused at this. Finger Pointer took this as the opportune time to get revenge for his friend, but I was in perfect tune with these two. They weren't a very hard song. He came forward. I shot down and thrust myself into the front of his knees. He fell face first on the ground. I sprang to my feet and kicked him in the ribs. _Hilfinger_ landed a punch to my stomach, but I rolled with it, then got him back with a solid jab straight to the nose. His eyes watered up immediately and he stumbled backward like a snake bit him. I took the opportunity to get one more good punch in and he went over the concrete retaining wall and fell the five feet into the river. A satisfying splash.

The girl screamed.

Finger Pointer got to his feet. _Hilfinger_ was still alive, he was making a racket in the water.

I knew our time was limited now. It had only been a minute, but if I wanted to get away clean I had to end it.

I put my hands up like I was training him to box. "Bet you didn't know he's sleeping with her," I said. My opponent was suddenly confused. "That's right," I continued.

"Bullshit," he replied.

"Whatever you say. Can't help the helpless." I shrugged.

He came at me. I took a slam to the ribs, but caught him with the heel of my hand right in the throat. He clutched his Adam's apple, gasping, and shot me a dirty glare. I knew what he was saying as he stood there panting.

"I know, I know. I fight dirty. Well get used to it, the real world doesn't have rules."

I heard Brody yelling at me. He was right. This wasn't the reason I was in Texas. I didn't need anything getting in my way of getting out again. I just needed some release.

"How do you know?" came a strangled voice. Finger Pointer was responding.

"She seems a hell of a lot more worried about him right now, doesn't she?" I answered, nodding in the direction of the river.

His face distorted the same way it had when I'd bent his finger. Then, as if I weren't there, he passed me by and went over to the retaining wall and began to yell. I began walking away. Then there was a hand on my shoulder. I turned. It was the girl.

"Fuck you," was all she said. Then she slapped me hard across the face. At first I was pissed off. But after a second I smiled. She turned and marched off, nose in the air, as her two Romeos verbally had it out with each other on the river's edge.

"I like her," I told Brody as he tried to hustle me away from the site of my entertainment.

"You deserved it."

I looked over my shoulder. "Of course. Now, lets blow this taco stand."

The hotel was a mile walk, and my ribs had a satisfying ache all the way there.


	4. Where you'd be in 2002

It was about 2 in the morning when they reached the hotel. Brody was wondering why the hell he'd answered that phone call. Sure, Sands could be entertaining, but more often he was just trouble. If his name didn't have an agency title next to it, it'd have a warrant. By the time he took a seat in Sands' hotel room though he didn't feel much like getting back up to go walk to his car. His knee hurt. "I should have just left your crazy ass there," he declared as Sands flipped on the bathroom light and stood in the doorway inspecting his ribs in the mirror. There'd be a mighty bruise.

"Aw, quit your bitchin'," came the reply as it echoed out of the bathroom. "I taught them an important lesson."

"And what was that? Don't mess with Sands?"

"No, but equally as important."

Brody grunted.

"Meatheads like that need a little guy beat the shit out of them every so often. They get cocky." He let his shirt fall back down and turned around while flipping the light off in the bathroom. Hell, did you see them? They had so much muscle they couldn't touch their elbows together. Jesus! Learn a little moderation, keep a balance. It's the only way to survive."

"You fought dirty though. A throat punch can really hurt a guy. Kill 'em."

Sands smirked. Sometimes he seemed to be laughing without doing so. "It was a bar brawl for fuck sake, bar brawls don't have fucking rules." He walked over to the bed, took off the jacket and hat, which miraculously hadn't fallen off in the fight, and dropped them on the bed, then he reached into his back waistband. "Anyway," he said, "If I wanted to kill him I would have used this." He pulled his sidearm out and placed it on the nightstand.

"Christ! You had that on you all this time? What if one of them had gotten hold of it-"

Sands waved Brody off as he reached into one of the pockets of the sports jacket and pulled out a cigarette case and Zippo. He stood up on the bed and pulled out the battery in the smoke detector, then lit up a little brown cig as he sat back down and threw the battery on the nightstand beside the gun.

"You could have gotten into all kinds of shit if your registered firearm was involved in something like that." Brody really was getting pissed now. "Hell, I should report you myself-"

Sands looked up from his smoke and narrowed his eyes. It felt like a threat, and it cut deep, making Brody genuinely frightened for a moment. "But nothing did happen. So they're no reason for that, is there." Sands told him. It wasn't a question.

Brody gave up. There was no use trying to change Sands. He sank back in the chair. Sands nodded at this little sign of resignation.

"Besides, its not my GI anyway." He said as ash fell onto the brown carpet and he wiped his boot over it. He was right. Brody glanced at the gun. It wasn't government issue. "I'm on vacation."

Brody shouldn't have been so surprised, but he hadn't noticed the gun was a revolver because he'd been so shocked to see Sands pulling a gun in the first place. He looked at the nightstand. A Mk IV Webley lie there.

"A little antiquated, don't you think?"

Sands shrugged. "Just as good if you know how to use it. The gun's as good as the marksman."

Brody remembered the first time on the firing range back at the Farm. Sands had been a natural, hitting the mark so many times in a row that he set a CIA record. First time out. "Christ,' he said again at the memory.

Sands grinned again, as if reading his ex-partner's mind, then pushed his jacket and hat over to the other side of the bed and stretched out on his back, one knee up, the other ankle resting on it. The elevated foot twitched to a silent song. He blew a lungful of blue smoke up like a train.

Brody stared at him. "Did you ever think, when you were a kid, you would be here in 2002?"

"Did you?"

Brody looked out the window beside him. The city still had a good amount of cars on the streets, but there was a quietness about it all, as if a quilt lay over it all, muffling sound. He pushed the pane open a little more to smell the night. "I guess. I always thought I'd be in the service like my father. Turns out I retired only ten years after him. Damn this knee." The light in the room was just dark enough to see the cherry on the end of Sands cigarette glow as he inhaled. "Damnit, Sands, what the hell am I supposed to do now? Helen left, then this knee, now my daughter is blaming me for the divorce. She's only 17, that the hell does she know?" Brody decided to shut up before he embarrassed himself. "Anyway, I was the one who asked the question."

Sands' foot stopped twitching and he blew out another plume, thinking. "When I was a kid, I figured I'd be dead by now."

The casualness, even sincerity, of the answer startled Brody. "Seriously?"

"Yup, honest Injun."

Brody had no idea how to react to this. "Why?" he finally asked.

Sands put his cigarette out on the smoke detector battery. _Stupid question_, Brody thought.

"I'm not going to bullshit you, Alex. I swam with sharks as a kid. There were a lot of guns around and I'm a wise ass, savvy? I had a lot of barrels pointed at me before I started training."

Brody wondered if that was the reason Sands needed to assert power, why he joined the CIA. Power. Power… and protection.

"Don't get me wrong, it was fun. Lots of risks, excitement, freedom. I just had to watch who I crossed, and who I trusted. Ol' Dad taught me how to be independent, then left me to it." He turned his head to look at Brody and flashed his Cheshire grin. "And I've been at it ever since."

Somehow this confession brought up more questions than it answered. Sands had a way of doing that. He didn't talk too much about his past.

"Now, I'll see you in the morning if you don't mind meeting me for lunch here. I promise I won't kill anyone. Say, one?"

Brody figured he could use a cab to get back to the car. He muttered a reluctant agreement as he got to his feet.

"Good." Sands said, popping his boots off.

Brody closed the door behind him.

At 1:10 Brody walked into the hotel restaurant and found Sands pouring something from a flask into his coke.

"Oh, look who's made it! 'Fraid I'd scared you off there, champ," he said, screwing the cap back on the flask and pocketing it. He was wearing a light, tan linen jacket, a white t-shirt that read: "Strangulation _is_ therapeutic" in red lettering and a bucket hat with a pair of aviator sunglasses propped up on it. Brody looked through the glass tabletop to see a pair of kaki shorts and white basketball shoes.

Brody couldn't hold in a laugh. "You do realize you're dressed like Raoul Duke, right?"

"I always liked that guy. The man's a legend.."

"Yeah? Probably because he's the only other man in the Company who's as crazy as you are."

"I'm flattered," Sands replied, taking a drink. "Sit down, Alex, I have a favor to ask of you."

Brody's smile disappeared almost immediately.

______________________________________________________________________

**So the Raoul Duke reference is for anyone who digs Hunter Thompson. I figured since we're working in the fictional realm, Duke is the real one instead of Thompson. I owe some of my interest in Depp because of Thompson, and anyone whose seen Fear and Loathing will note that one of Sand's outfits does really resemble Hunter's wonderful "fashion sense" if you really wanna call it that. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, R. Duke was sort of a personification of all Thompson's crazy side who he often claimed ot be a real person ( a friend of his) who worked for the CIA. Anyone who hasn't seen it Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, go out and buy the Chriterian Collection version. Then, buy the book. Read the book first, it's just proper. You won't regret it. That said, Duke isn't mine duuuh.**


	5. Just a Little Favor

The next chapter and a half will be slow, but action is coming soon, I swear.

Chapter 5: A Small Favor

Brody almost got back to his feet.

"Wait wait wait, Goddamnit," I said, scowling at him. "I told you I wasn't going to kill anyone. I just wondered if you'd want some distraction." I waited a beat for him to catch up. "I need to go to Del Rio."

Brody slowly sat back down. "hmmmm… which one? This is Texas, there's a million places from bars to towns called Del Rio."

"Why the fuck would they call a town 'The River?'" I muttered to myself. "I was told it's a place near here. You have any ideas?" I didn't look up as I shook pepper onto my eggs. I knew I had him thinking without having to see his face twitch in that particular way he had when trying to solve a problem. Brody wasn't a dumb man, but he was loyal, which was sometimes just as good.

"I assume it's a town, or the nickname of some slab of land-"

"There was a place…" Brody began. I hate being cut off, but he seemed to be going somewhere. "Why do you need to know anyway?"

I gave him the most pleasant smile I could muster. "I'm supposed to meet someone there, but I can't reach them anymore. Communication is bad. All they said in the message was 'meet me at Del Rio,'" I lied.

Brody nodded. "Well, there was a place we called Del Rio when I was a kid. This was in the Sixties though, I don't know if it'd still be there."

'What was it?" I asked, trying to seem only half interested as I sat back and nursed my Coke.

"Well, I can't remember were exactly it was, but it seems it was off the highway headed north awhile. It was a replica town tourist place, or an abandoned Hollywood set or something. Wild west type place, only leaning toward Spanish instead of American. Very odd. Like a ghost town."

I lifted an eyebrow. "Really."

"Seems like a weird place to meet up with someone." There was a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Like I said: Brody wasn't dumb.

I shrugged. "Don't ask me. He's an odd fellow." I finished the Coke and stood up, shifting my sunglasses over my eyes. "You feel up to a road trip?"

I could see him grit his teeth in serious debate.

"I rented a fast car with no top this morning, and all the food's on me."

He grunted.

"Or I could just drop you back at your house…."

He stood up. "Okay, okay. Just… don't start any more fights."

I laughed and gave him a little bow of thanks. "Deal, partner."

I saw him cringe at the word.


	6. Little Here, Little There

Chapter 6: Little Here, Little There

The black Caddy pulled out of the hotel's lot five minutes later, Brody in the passenger seat; the only thing more daunting in his mind than the trip ahead being the empty, quiet house behind.

Sands gunned it when they pulled onto the highway and soon they were flying at 95 in a 70 zone. He'd taken off his hat before even stepping into the car, knowing it would just blow away. His hair flew like dark banners as Brody's eyes watered and he yelled over the wind for Sands to slow down. Sands gave it another thirty seconds before releasing the gas and letting the car drift down to 80.

"You really need to loosen up. I just wanted see what she can do."

They were only on the road thirty minutes when Sands mounted an exit.

"What're we doing?"

"Gas."

Brody leaned, trying to see the gas gauge. "Already?"

"Sure. I took her out this morning. Ever see the sun rise over open desert? Gorgeous."

Brody just gave him an odd look. Never in his life had he met a man who surprised him on such a regular basis.

The station was run-down. The sort you'd expect in the middle of the desert: blown sand slowly chipping all color from the signage, the glass so scratched it looks frosted. Brody couldn't tell if the ground beneath the wheels was gravel, dirt, or used to be paved. Perhaps it was a combination of all three.

Sands hopped out, took a glance at the pump and made a growling sigh sound that sounded vaguely like "fucking terrorist" but just as easily could have been "fucking capitalists" as he turned to go inside to pre-pay.

Brody stayed in the car.

He watched Sands enter the convenience store, then opened the glove compartment in hopes of finding something about who they were going to meet. Instead, a paperback copy of _Phantom of the Opera_ fell out. Catching it clumsily, he opened it to a marked page. The bookmark was dark blue with an illustrated star at the tip and white words running down it. A poem: "Sea Fever" by John Masefield*. It was the kind of bookmark one picked up in libraries at the checkout, but the edges were soft with age and the book wasn't loaned, so he figured it was being re-used. Was this really Sand's rental car? Did the last renter leave this here?

He heard the store's door ringer go off and he replaced the book in the compartment as Sand's crossed the empty lot. Brody squinted at him. _Phantom of the Opera_? Really? He supposed in a way it did make a twisted kind of sense.

Sands filled the tank and they were on the road again.

"I asked the clerk about your ghost town and he just looked confused. The manager, dull as he sounded, did think he remembered a place like it, but it's further than I think you remember, and off the main drag quite a bit."

Brody felt he should be asking more questions, but at the moment he was just glad to be out doing something, anything for that matter. The sun was warm and bright, the air was dry and it was the best kind of weather one can ask for in Texas at 2:30 in the afternoon. It would be a day trip to an old haunt. It felt like he hadn't a care in the world

They fell to absent talk. Remembering the night before, Brody asked where Sands had picked up such strong opinions on the Alamo.

"You said something about Polk, but Jackson was president during the battle of the Alamo."

"Yeah, sure. They all blur into each other after a while. Polk was a land grubbing, slaver son-of-a-bitch. Jackson had a hard-on for killing Indians. Santa Anna was a Royalist prick, but at least he was entertaining." He smirked as if laughing at his own personal joke.

Brody almost laughed. Seeing someone so worked up about historical figures just felt ridiculous. "You read biographies for fun or something?"

Sands just shrugged.

At four they spotted a silver diner shining in the distance and Brody voiced his hunger.

"You're just trying to squeeze that free food out of me, you good-for-nothing retiree."

They'd been searching up and down side roads, always returning to the highway all afternoon and all they'd found was an old mission so crumbled not even the tourist commission thought it was worth charging for.

"Fine. We'll stop here. Maybe find a map, and mark where we've been."

.

They were the only ones there except for the single waitress and a biker who occupied a table near the back. The tile blue-check floor was slightly sticky. They slid onto the blue vinyl barstools at the counter and Sands ordered the biggest, most artery-threatening burger on the menu. Brody felt a pang of envy. How the hell did he do it?

"Just lucky I guess." Sands said.

Brody jumped. "What the hell?"

"You're easy to read sometimes. Your eyes are very revealing. It's a good thing you've never had to go in deep cover before."

Sands was always good in an interrogation, but it could get annoying when he used his keen senses outside of them. "You might get along with Helen. She thought so too."

"Really?" Sands replied in a suggestive voice.

Brody grimaced. "Then again, she's not really your type."

Sands just smirked.

"Is this the way you spend all your vacations?" Brody decided to change subjects.

"Maybe."

"Meeting up with people in places you don't know how to get to? Dragging old friends into bar fights and all around the state."

"I'm hardly _dragging _you," Sands cut in. "Besides. What else would I do? Sitting on the porch, however pleasant it is for a day or two, really gets old fast. Vacations are just a different sort of mission, Alex. _Escape_. Can be important business." He turned to face the windowed front wall, his elbows resting on the yellow counter top behind him.

Their food was laid out in front of them a moment later, but Sands wasn't turning around. He was concentrated on the world beyond the window. His eyebrows suddenly drew together, then, his eyes squinted against the blazing light outside.

"Oh, shit."

Brody began to turn as well but Sands sprang to his feet, knocked the plate out of the way and jumped up on the counter in a crouch. He grabbed Brody by the back of his shirt and hauled him over the counter like a large cat moving a helpless kitten. Sands jumped down behind the counter just as the first shot rang out. The waitress screamed, running into the small kitchen in the back. A second shot.

Brody decided to join Sands and did so with little grace.

Sands pressed against the back of the counter. "What the fuck? Whatthefuck, whatthefuck!" he hissed between his teeth.

"What the hell is going on?" Brody demanded.

Sands didn't reply. He pulled the Webley from his waistband, moved a few feet to the right and peeked over the counter.

The third shot hit the drink dispenser just above and behind where his head was exposed, directly in the center of the "o" in Coke. Soda water sprayed like champagne and colored syrups dribbled onto the tiled floor of their hideout. "Shit. I hate trench warfare."

Brody tentatively lifted his head enough to see out the front window. God he wished he had a valid badge and sidearm. He'd show this fucker what-for. There were only three places out there he could be hiding. He saw Sands check his gun, put on his bucket hat which he conjured from his back pocket, then slowly stand up.

"No! What are you doing, damnit!"

There was a shot. Sands dropped.

Outside. "FUCK!"

Sands peeked up and squeezed off a shot at the concrete and stucco diner sign.

Sands pulled his bucket hat off and put a large grapefruit he found on a shelf of fruit beside the sink inside it to keep it full. He then stuck his fingers in some of the red syrup from the soda dispenser and wiped it on the hat. He placed it carefully on the ground at the end of the counter, right where the top of it would be visible from the door.

The sound of a motorcycle started outside and gunfire followed until it roared into the distance. The biker must have escaped through the bathroom window. They could do the same, but the car was right out front, not on the side of the building like the bike had been, and they were obviously the main objective.

Sands stayed in a crouch and moved back toward the kitchen. Oblivious to anything but the fact that Sands operations never seemed to fail, Brody followed his ex-partner.

The waitress screeched as they came into through the swinging door and aimed a butcher knife at them like it was a pistol.

"Stay away or I'll put it in your eye!" she threatened, but her voice wavered. "That's fine, sugar. How do I get on the roof?"

She looked confused but didn't lower her weapon. "There- there's a ladder on the back wall."

"Peachy." Sands gave a seductive smile. Her knife lowered slightly and she backed off toward the walk-in cupboard.

Sands ran to the back wall tucking his gun back in his waistband, and flew up the ladder with the ease of a spider monkey. At the top, he pistol whipped the lock off and pushed the door in the ceiling up with his shoulder. Scoping out the mostly flat roof. They were on the roof in less than minute after leaving the counter.

Brody followed him onto the roof. Sands moved like a one man SWAT unit toward the front. He popped over the front and scanned the front lot in under a second, then the back. There was a black sedan in the back lot. Return to the front. Their enemy emerged from his hiding place. Sands aimed, but then lowered. The man was putting away his gun. He looked back and forth, but not up. "Shit," they heard him say as he passed slowly to the door. Sands quickly found pipes on the side of the building. When the door closed, he paused a half second and went over the side. Brody went and watched him navigate the pipes using little more effort than he had on the ladder. He dropped the last five feet and slunk toward the front door. Brody, abandoned and forgotten, tried to clamber down, eventually dropping and rolling. Holding back a groan, he ran to catch up. Sands was bursting through the door behind the gunman yelling-

"Drop your piece and kick it back here, Tootsie! Damn, you're a stupid son-of-a-bitch."

The man held his gun and turned. Though the gun was aimed at him, Sands didn't stop. A shot boomed. A red flower of blood blossomed on the shoulder of Sands coat. The other two men looked at it. Sands kept his eyes on his enemy. "Give me a name, and maybe I'll find some smidgen of sympathy for you." He took another step forward, thumbing back the hammer on his revolver and aiming it at the man's head. The man lowered his weapon, a look of doom moving over his face. He swallowed.

"I donno. I swear. It was arranged through letter and phone. We never met-"

"Shhhhh."

The sound of sirens in the distance.

"Fuck."

The man's face relaxed too soon as Sands lowered his aim. He blew off the tip of the man's shoe.

"Ahhh!" On the ground fast. A puddle of blood. More sounds of anguish.

Sands turned for the door. Brody felt relieved to get out in the air. The sweet sound of sirens could be heard, but no cruisers on the horizon yet. Sands went to the Caddy and jumped in, turning on the engine.

"What're you doing! They're almost here!" Brody demanded.

"Exactly. I don't have time for this shit."

Brody's jaw dropped.

"I could leave you to explain it to them, or you can come and I might just explain what I can."

Pause.

"Now or never," Sands said, letting the car roll forward. The door opened behind Brody and he heard groans from the toeless gunman.

"Shit, shit shit," he whispered as he got into the car.

"It's a shame," Sands sighed. "I didn't even get to taste that burger."

They were gone minutes before the police arrived.

.

Brody didn't say anything until his adrenaline lowered. He thought he might have a heart attack if he didn't find distraction. To keep from exploding he closed his eyes and tried to meditate. Sands sped to 100 mph and after nearly and hour, found a seedy motel alone a few miles from the highway. Procuring a room with a fake name and a credit card under the same name (One of the benefits of knowing people), he parked the car, retrieved some things from the trunk and put the top up. Brody looked about to blow, but kept himself under control until they reached the room.

Pulling the curtains, Sands sat on one of the beds and looked down at the blood on his arm.

"What is going on?" Brody asked in the calmest tone he could manage.

"Damn. I liked this jacket."

Brody bristled. "Answer me Goddamnit! We could have been killed!"

"We weren't in mortal danger. Calm down."

"Bullshit!"

Sands looked up from his wound. "Look. If he were supposed to kill us he wouldn't have sounded so worried when he saw my hat sticking out, he wouldn't have _missed_ when I was _right in front_ _of him_, and he wouldn't have hit the 'o' in 'Coke' so _perfectly_."

Brody had to think about this. It was perfectly centered, wasn't it? "So why?"

Sands shrugged. Maybe my friend's in danger. Maybe that's why I need to find Del Rio. Your guess is as good as mine. It was some warning, but they didn't want government blood on them."

Brody digested this as Sands pulled a first aid kit from the black bag he's taken from the trunk. He removed his jacket, examined the bloody hole in the shoulder. Brody parted the curtains a little and looked into the darkening parking lot.

"Well, at least it doesn't look like anyone followed us…. How's your arm-" He glanced back at Sands, who'd removed his t-shirt and was bandaging his arm. "Jesus Christ! Where'd that all come from?"

He'd never seen Sands shirtless before. Two bullet holes decorated the upper part of the right side of his chest. Despite being faded he could tell they'd been nasty when he'd first gotten them, probably at relatively close range. A less gruesome scar that looked like it had been made by a long blade ran from his lower ribs and disappeared around his back. He didn't even look up from his work. "Eh. Little here, little there. You know how it is."

"I thought I did," Brody whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.

They slept in shifts that night.

.

.

*Sea Fever

I must down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sails shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea's face, and the grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the sea again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the sea again, the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover

And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.


	7. When am I?

Chapter 7: When Am I?

Son-of-a-bitch. Really?

The sun shot through the tent flap like an arrow into my head. I shut my eyes tighter and turned my face away. Slowly, I sat up. The sand grit in my mouth crunched between my teeth and I spat onto the ground that had just been my bed and watched the valuable water sink into the dry earth. I shook the dirt from my hair and then the rolled up soft leather shirt I'd used as a pillow.

Taking the bottle of tequila out of the single small satchel I carried on me, I took a pull to push back the headache that it was responsible for. The other body that helped to fill my small one-man tent the night before was gone. Doubtless she'd started back early for her side of the territory.

Shielding my eyes, I crawled out, finally able to stand instead of crouch. I stretch, slowly adjusting my eyes. A great sea of golden grass spread before me, the sky still tinged pink from sunrise.

Eating what was left of last night's meal, I pulled on the leather shirt and stomped and spread the cooking fire that had gone out hours before. I packed the tent. As an afterthought, I pulled out my hunting knife and shard of mirror and shaved off the patchy beard that had begun to develop on my jaws. Satisfied, I took my compass bearing and headed out to find a bit of civilization.

.

The mission was six miles from my night camp. I found the dirt road at what looked about ten, reached the mission at noon. The bells were ringing. I needed to restock on the things nature couldn't provide. I approach the guard. Military occupation, but it surprised me to see it's the Texans, not the Mexicans.

I had to catch up on current events.

I attempt to pass into the mission courtyard, but the guard blocked my path.

"What do you want here, red man?"

I tried to make my smile affable. "Looking for a friend of mine. Name's Jesus. Seen 'im?"

He appeared as startled by my British accent as I was hearing it. It sounded low-born, but I doubted this man could tell the difference. It seems my voice had won me some credit in his eyes but he was still suspicious. "Just need a little restock is all…" I studied his shabby uniform, "Private."

He looked at me up and down. Animal skin shirt over a pair of heavy brown trousers I hadn't worn in years, beat but European style boots, chunky metal rings and a few necklaces and a military backpack. A mish-mash. The long dark hair and sun baked skin so deep a tan was where his problem really stemmed.

He took a few seconds too long. "I don't come empty handed," I said in a low voice, pulling a pouch from my boot and extracting a coin. His eyes lit up. I flipped it to him.

The diligent private stepped aside.

Inside the walls of the fort was a long courtyard. To my right stood the actual mission, but farther down were buildings for troops, and the people who staffed the mission. Mostly I saw men baring arms. Tents much like mine were gathered at the back wall, nearly 450 feet from the front gate. I wondered if coming here had been a good idea.

I refilled my water skin at the well, found a man who would trade a whetting stone for tobacco and wondered toward the church to have a better look around.

Most people don't know how small the Alamo mission really is.

.

A buzzing woke me. I stared at the ceiling wondering where I was and what could be making that sound. My arm hurt. A moment of shock kept me still on the bed. What the hell? I blinked hard. "My name is…." I mouthed to the near darkness. "My name is-" The buzzing continued.

"Sands," I head a voice say.

_Sheldon Jeffery Sands. Central Intelligence Agency._

I sat up and turned off the alarm on my phone. "My shift. Right. Into bed, cripple." I told Brody. "Anything weird happen?"

"Not really."

"Not really? Or no?"

"No."

"Good."

I took up my gun and my position by the window. I put my feet up on the windowsill and sat back in the wooden chair. The fort would be secured, at least for the time being.

.

.

Anyone have any clue what's going on yet?


	8. Voluntary Kidnapping

Chapter 8: Voluntary Kidnapping

Brody woke up at eight and felt the jump from the diner's roof wearing on his bones. He'd barely worked out since retiring. Seeing him awake, Sands went into the bathroom.

Brody turned on the TV to see if there was anything smelling of yesterday's adventure on the morning news. He flipped channels until he found the local news. It wasn't that hard; the motel didn't get cable.

-"In other news the police are looking for one 'Johnny Sherwood' in connection with a shootout at a diner on Highway ___. A suspect was apprehended at the scene apparently moments after Sherwood left who claims he was hired to intimidate Sherwood, who is traveling with another, as of yet unidentified, man."

"Who the hell is Johnny Sherwood? Shit," Brody sighed. He didn't know if he should be relieved or freaking out.

"Unfortunately, the diner does not use cameras. The only staff on hand was one Ruby Wayworth, who had this to say:"

The screen switched to a video recording of the red haired waitress who'd served them, apparently taken when the press arrived at the diner the day before.

"I've never been so scared in my life. I went back in the kitchen when the gunfire started and got a knife. When they, the two at the counter, came back I was prepared to defend myself, but the longhaired guy just asked how to get on the roof. The other man looked just as confused as I was."

"So far there have been no further developments."

The shower in the bathroom turned off and a few seconds later Sands emerged in a white towel and a cloud of steam. He went to the bag on the floor by the TV and pulled out a black shirt and jeans, then headed back to the bathroom. Before he could close the door Brody called out "Who's Johnny Sherwood?"

Sands paused with hand on the doorknob. "Who?"

"The news, they called you Sherwood."

Sands eyebrows drew together and his eyes drifted down and over as if in thought. He closed the door the rest of the way without answering.

Brody grumbled cruses at him.

"It was probably all just a mistake," he said coming out of the bathroom. "The guy got the wrong man. Now that he's out of the picture I doubt we'll have too much more drama."

Brody threw him a look of suspicion. "So we're back on the road again."

"Affirmative, Agent Brody."

.

At the next gas station they dug up some food that didn't look like it'd sat on the shelf for months, and a map. Brody unfolded the map that took up most of the front seat, and took a long look, attempting to stir memories from thirty years past. He still wasn't convinced Sands' ignorance of Sherwood, and no matter how much he tried to focus on the moment he couldn't help but think of the day before.

Sands had the driver seat back and was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette between sips from a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

Brody kept glancing over, expecting to see a hint of tension in his body or expression. He was completely relaxed, though his dark eyes seemed to be calculating. What was really going on here, and why the hell did he have to be involved?

He returned to the map. This was a wild goose chase. 30 years was too long to remember the location of some off the beaten path place he visited maybe 6 or 7 times.

_God,_ Brody thought resentfully. _I hope those black clothes are making him sweat._

This is what it was like to be on an operation with him. Secrets on top of secrets until something big goes down and he's the only one who knows what's going on. Next, he distributes a calculated amount of information, pulls a stunt nobody's expecting, and Bam, the whole thing is wrapped before his partners can even catch up.

It was infuriating.

He couldn't imagine how his handlers felt. He probably didn't report everything to them either. Sands would have been booted years ago if he weren't so damn _good_. He was the agent the Company hated to love, but couldn't help it.

Then, something else struck him. What if this was part of some mission and Brody was being used for something without knowing it? This made him nervous. He forced the thought away. Couldn't be because Sands hadn't used his cell phone in more then 24 hours. No, he had to really be doing this on his own.

He wondered what would happen if he threw a wrench in the gears. Choosing a nice big empty spot on the map he circled it with a pen to make sure he would remember it and not switch locations on accident.

"Here," he said. "I think it's somewhere around here."

Sands sat up and studied a moment. Brody watched him, remembering his little gloat the other day about lying and wondered if it would work. Apparently Brody had a better poker face than he thought, or Sands was desperate enough to take anything he was given, either way, Sands straightened the seat and started the Caddy's engine without a word.

Brody estimated he had about an hour to come up with excuses, and reasons to return to his empty house.

.

They parked on a small gravel road that faded off into dry grass and dirt. The sun was high now, and far hotter than its pleasant temperature of the day before.

"It shouldn't be that much farther. Course I was younger then and it probably felt shorter."

They were a quarter mile from the car. The grass was slightly greener and they passed through a line of trees. "Look, we're putting a lot of stock in this even being the 'Del Rio' you're looking for. I mean, this place might even have been leveled, could be owned by someone else now."

Sands walked a half pace in front of him. The Webley was in a shoulder holster after the events of the day before, Brody guessed he wanted it closer at hand. He had a small v of sweat on the back of his black shirt, which was nothing compared to the slick on Brody's forehead. He swore sometimes that the man was the same age as he had been at the Farm. Some guys get all the luck.

A puff of dust floated into the air as Sands came to a sudden stop. He looked at Brody over his shoulder through his dark sunglasses. "You know, I'm beginning to wonder if-" he paused, his eyes going sharp and he held up his hand. By now they were in a dip in the land that ended in a stream. On the other side of this the land sloped up steeply, another line of trees at its precipice.

"What is it?" Brody asked.

Sands only stood still, looking around.

Brody followed his gaze. Nothing.

"Follow me," he suddenly ordered, and quickly crossed the steam, which was low from the hot summer. Brody followed. If one learned anything about Sands, it was to trust his instincts more than their own. Brody caught up as he began to mount the hill.

"What's going on?"

"We're gaining the high ground," Sands said in a low voice without even looking at him. He grit his teeth. "You've led us out to the middle of nowhere and someone has decided to drop by."

At the top of the hill, Sands continued down the other side. About halfway down he crouched and crept back up to the top, keeping behind an outcrop of rock and brush. Brody stayed down where Sands had turned, squinting off across the fields on their side of the hill. A familiar water tower stood seven or eight miles to the north…. He'd been closer to the mark than he could have ever guessed.

He scrambled back up the hill and knelt down beside Sands.

"I know where we are now!" he whispered urgently. "We went too far south. If we get back on the highway, I can get us there."

Sands turned to him faster than lightening. One hand gripped his collar, the other pushed the Webley up under his chin. "Are you lying to me again?" he asked in a whispered hiss.

"Christ! No, no, I swear to God." He had known?

Not the reaction he thought his news would receive.

Sands nearly threw Brody from him and turned back to the stream. There came a sloshing sound and Brody followed his line of sight. Two men were crossing where they had a couple of minutes ago. They were both wearing sports coats in the heat, so he assumed they were outfitted in the same fashion as Sands.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Sands aiming his revolver.

"What the hell are you doing?" he protested.

"I won't get a better shot than this."

"They could be perfectly innocent people!" he insisted.

"And George Bush could be a fucking genius, but I wouldn't put any money down." He adjusted his aim.

Brody hit his arm right as he fired. The bullet killed an innocent wildflower a few feet in front of the men. They immediately drew and fired. One bullet ricochet off the rocks in front of them, the other lodged in a tree to their left.

"Innocent, fuckmook? I saw these two at the airport."

"What if they're government?"

"Then they wouldn't be firing at CIA, would they?"

Brody thought. "What if they think you're Sherwood?"

Sands fired blindly over the rocks as if to confirm he was still alive.

He then sat down, his back to the rock. Brody again regretted not having a sidearm.

There came a voice calling from the valley. It said, "Mr. Sands? Agent Sands, we work for someone whose last wish is for you to get hurt. Please, voluntarily come with us. We do not want to have to use force."

Sands sat on this for a minute. Then, "On one condition," he said over his shoulder.

There was a moments silence. "Yes?"

"I keep the gun," he answered.

"What the hell?" Brody whispered.

"Don't get your balls twisted, you were pleading for their lives a few minutes ago."

"I didn't mean surrender."

"Who said this was surrender?"

The voice from over the hill replied, "We'll comply. Please holster your weapon and come out with your hands on your head."

Sands shrugged. "Groovy." Putting the Webley away, he stood up.

"Where is your friend?" they asked. Brody followed suit.

Sands strolled down the hill like this was as normal as ordering a pizza.

"Where to, boys?"

.

"We'll drop the car at a less conspicuous location," the first man said to his partner.

"I agree."

"Where are we going?" Sands asked again. They were nearing the car, which was now parked beside a red Monte Carlo. "Subtle," Sands said under his breath.

"We can't disclose that information, sir," the first man replied.

The back seats were gestured to and Brody and Sands exchanged looks, then got in. The second man stayed outside another minute talking on a cell, then got into the front passenger seat.

They drove for maybe a half hour in silence, then the second man turned in his seat. Sands instinctually touched his gun. The man put his hands in front of him.

"We would appreciate it if you submitted to blindfolding, for security reasons," he informed them.

"How theatrical," Sands scowled. "Just like a spy movie. You didn't mention this before."

"We know it might seem strange, but I assure you it is only for security purposes, yours as well as our…employer's."

Brody was liking this less and less.

"And what if we don't?" Sands asked with a lifted brow.

The man's face grew stern. "Then I'm afraid this is going to get complicated." He reached behind him, Sands drew the Webley like a snake striking. The man brought out two black pieces of cloth very slowly. Their eyes locked and neither moved for what seemed a full minute but could have been merely seconds.

"You should know that if anything happens to us-"

"We know who you are, and like we said before, the last thing we want is your injury…sir."

Sands clenched his jaw, glared, slowly put away his weapon.

Brody sighed out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"I fucking hate blind folds," Sands complained to himself as he took the cloth and pushed his sunglasses up on his head.

.

The blindfolds were removed only after they'd been brought into an air-conditioned building and into an elevator. The doors slid open to a hallway with dark blue carpeting and painted walls but no windows. A basement? No windows meant no escape other than through doors, which would probably be guarded. They were brought to a door on the left side of the hall and let in. It was about the size of doctor's waiting room and had four comfortable chairs, a dome light, but still no windows. A small surveillance camera perched in a corner of the ceiling.

"If you'll wait here," the driver said, "It might be a while."

"Wonderful," Sands answered in an acidic tone. The door closed.

Brody reached out to the doorknob.

"Don't bother, it's locked." He looked around, but there wasn't anything to see. Taking a seat, he pulled a second chair closer so he could put his boots up on its arm and yawned. "They're probably just observing us to see if we try anything stupid or continue to be 'uncooperative'." He flicked off the camera and gave his Cheshire smile. "Sit down. The sooner I find out what all this shit is about, the sooner you can point me to Del Rio and you can go home and get back to your porch sitting."

Brody did sit down, but he wasn't happy about it.

"Relax, I'll tell them to leave you out of it. You aren't even armed."

The room was quiet, and suddenly he was feeling rather tired for some reason….


	9. Relief and Jovaility

I promise it will all make sense soon

Chapter 9: Relief and Joviality

Thank God the rat bastards were too stupid to search us.

With gradually more incompetent hands I turned from the camera, slipped my flask from my pocket and slid out a secret compartment in its lower half. A needle was already prepped inside.

"Always be prepared," I mumbled to myself as I took the shot and injected it straight into my neck. As quickly as possible it was back in the flask. Faking a swig, I turned back in sight of the camera. Brody looked dazed. My eyelids felt like iron. Leaning back in the chair, I felt the gas's effects weighing heavy.

"Do you feel that?" Brody asked.

"There's something in the air. You'll be fine. They don't want anything from you."

"What the hell is going on?" His constant question. I saw him try to shake off the sensation unsuccessfully. I myself can't stand being intoxicated without permission, but something told me I'd done all that was necessary.

I knew what I was doing. I always know what I'm doing.

The thought of these bastards believing they were in control had me angry for a moment, but then I laughed. Johnny Sherwood? Shit. He died in 1935. What the hell were they looking for?

The gas filled my lungs and I started humming, then whispering:

"_When I was just a baby, _

_My mama told me, son_

_Always be a good boy,_

_Don't ever play with guns._

_But I shot a man in Reno_

_Just to watch him die…"*_

And I laughed again, looking directly at the camera I laughed in their faces. And then, sleep….

.

.

The floor of the cell was dirt, not a hell of a lot different from many beds I'd slept on in the past few years. I swear at that point I would have gone to a brothel just to have a night on the mattress.

I sat up, trying to stretch muscles back into shape where stones had been probing them. There wasn't much to do in the four walls but sleep and piss.

My effects hung on the wall opposite the bars and I was considering knowing off my left arm in order to drag them to me. There's a lock-pick hidden under a fold at the bottom of the tent pack.

I would think of something, given a little more time.

But as it turned out, I wouldn't have to.

The armed Texan who'd placed me behind the bars a few days before approached sometime near sunset. I didn't remove the floppy-brimmed leather hat I had pulled low over my eyes, nor did I sit up from my lounging position against the back wall of my cell.

"Hola, amigo," I said dryly.

"Bowie wants for you ta talk to 'im."

I finally moved the hat. "Really?" I asked. "And what does he want me to tell him?"

The man paused. Whatever small creature ran the gears in his head must have been working up a thirst.

"Tell him I'll think about it." I said, giving a dismissive wave.

He seemed shocked, and a little offended. "But you'll miss the battle. They'll probably kill the prisoners."

This caught my attention. "Battle?" How interesting. I made a show of thinking it over. "Show mister Bowie to my lovely quarters and I'll discuss matters with him."

The Texan left.

What the hell was this all about? I'd heard of Jim Bowie, but had things really elevated to all out war? How long had I been wandering Indian territory?

An Hour passed.

I knew I'd taken a chance by asking for him to come to me, but I couldn't help it. If we talked in the prison it showed that thing would be on my terms. I stood up and folded my arms, leaning against the wall beside the window, outside of which the sun was rapidly losing ground. I relaxed as if I weren't anxious about getting out.

Eventually, I heard the sound of spurs and door opening just out of sight to the right.

We stood facing each other through the bars for a moment.

"You're here for theft?" he asked.

"So they say," I replied with a smirk.

"Can you shoot?"

"Can you knife-fight?"

He lifted his eyebrows briefly.

"Do you love your country?"

I snorted. "Which one is that?" I asked. "I don't care much for flags and boarders, col., they're pastimes of old men and politicians. But if it gets be out of here, 'long live the republic.'"

This caused him pause, but his gaze was far more intelligent as it ran over me than the man who'd previously stood there.

"If I gave you a gun, how will I know my men will be safe?"

"You won't."

"How do I know you're not a Mexican spy?"

"You don't. Who is it we're fighting?"

There was a flicker of surprise behind his eyes, but it did not manifest itself otherwise.

"Santa Anna."

"How many men?"

"__"

I nodded. "I see. Ell, you can't very well trust me, but you'll need every man on the walls that you can get." This would be a massacre.

"Then we have similar lines of reasoning."

Another moment of sizing each other up.

"Lets make a deal," I said with a grin that I hoped didn't look too fiendish.

"Perhaps."

"I may not care much for flags, but I do value my freedom. A pardon will win my sword, savvy?"

Bowie considered. "I would have liked to have seen your first, but with the numbers as they are, I doubt accuracy will much matter."

He stuck his hand in between the bars. I glanced at it, but refrained. "A handshake through prison bars can hardly hold any confidence for either party.

For the first time in our exchange, Bowie's mouth hinted at a grin.

He opened my cage and we sealed our agreement.

I was watched as I set up my tent near the others in the dying light of the sun. Outside the walls too many campfires lit the night in the distance, and the reality of their position seemed to be sinking into the men around me.

Death wait just off the bow….

.

.

I felt a needle pinch my arm as I slowly opened my eyes. My situation slowly came to me. I remembered the gas, my needle. This wasn't the same room.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I asked, but no one answered.

My head felt groggy. I stretched my neck, tilting my head as I did so to try and straighten my vision. "I'm only here because I allowed you to take me here. I would have killed those fuckers in the woods."

I sat in a wood chair before a metal table, unrestrained. A single light shone over head. Once more, no windows.

An interrogation room? Shit.

As annoying as all this was, I was also glad I'd seen something like this coming. The injection I gave myself in the other room, a ___ of my own brew, should counteract the 'truth serum' they'd just fed my veins. I could fake it and do this interview my way.

My vision cleared. It seems I'd slept off most of the gas. Soon all that remained was the nausea.

A man sat across the table from me. I smiled, faked the effects of their injection. The man's hair was graying and I laughed at my own personal joke regarding that fact.

My laugh earned me a somewhat patronizing grin from my observer.

"It's a nice place you got here."

The grin widened.

""Mr. Sands-"

"Agent," I corrected.

"Agent Sands."

"And who are you? What division do you hail from?" I asked, waving a hand in the air.

"We represent _private_ interests, M- Agent."

"Do you?" I lifted my eyebrows at this, leaning back. "What's the interest in little ol' me, then?"

He stared at me a moment, a pair of pale blue eyes in a thin face. I didn't meet his eyes, but let them drift around the room, helping to convince him of my lucid state.

"If you don't mind, Agent Sands, I will be asking the quest-"

"Did you send the gunman the other day? I mean to the diner."

"We had nothing to do with that." He seemed to be losing his humor. I backed off a bit.

"My employers have a great interest in you. I'd like to ask you what you know about John Sherwood.

I laughed again, winning time.

"Who?"

"Johnny Sherwood, Mr. Sands." For all his outer calm he might as well have been steaming at the ears. "Bootlegger and racketeer. You know who I'm talking about-"

"Ah. Yes. But he's been dead since 1935. Bit of a cold case. What do you want from _me_."

My interrogator sat silent for a moment, then he reached down beside his chair and brought a brief case to the tabletop. Out of it he extracted a few pieces of paper. He spread them on the table. One was a photo cut from a yellow newspaper; the other two were original black and whites.

I felt the blood starting to draw from my face as I looked at the three identical faces, then quickly regained control.

"Look familiar?"

"Sure. But he died in 1935. What does this have to do with me?"

"If he's dead, where's the body?" he asked, tossing a photo of an excavated grave down.

"A prank. Mafia keepsake, how the hell should I know?" I was growing tired of this. As good as it was to know these people existed, I wished I'd avoided this little confrontation.

He pulled yet another piece of paper out and added it to the spread. This one was a copy of a wanted poster from 1841 wit the name Jack Sherwood printed across it. I looked down at the same pair of eyes looking up at me from four places.

Oddly enough, I was restraining a grin. I looked up. "There's a strong family resemblance carried in the males."

He huffed through his nose. It was a "bullshit" sound. Snatching up the papers he stood up and leaned over the table with them clutched in his hand. "How is it done?" he demanded, finally showing as much aggravation as he obviously felt. "That's all we want to know!"

I just tilted my chair back as if to see his looming figure better and smirked. I folded my hands behind my head, finished at playing inebriated.

He shook the papers. "_How is it done, damnit!_"

I didn't respond.

"Is it the CIA?"

This one caught me off guard. Huh. "The CIA?"

"Yes, your employers, the Government."

I lowered the chair and stood up. "What exactly, are you asking about?"

"We want to know how it works…."

"How what works?"

He waited a second, as if thinking bout the question seriously for minute. "The- the time travel."

It took a minute for this to sink in. Then, I began to laugh. I laughed until tears came to my eyes, until my stomach muscles hurt. This was better than I'd felt in years, and the devastation on the man's face just made me laugh harder. The relief and joviality washed through me like one giant laxative. It was probably the healthiest thing I'd done all year.


	10. Del Rio

Chapter 10: Del Rio

"So what happened? I don't understand why they just let us go."

Sands wasn't paying much attention. Their captors had just dropped them at the convertible and were pulling away. He took a few steps after them.

"Hey, tell your employers that if they find what they're looking for I'll meet them on the Mars Colony in 2108!" He had been unnervingly cheerful since Brody had been released form the room they'd been gassed in earlier.

"What did you do? Who are they?" he asked Sands, who continued to chuckle to himself.

"They, Alex, are a bunch of the best funded government conspiracy nuts I've ever seen," Sands said as he unlocked the car. "Don't worry, you'll never see them again. I, on the other hand, will not be surprised if I find one tailing me again some day."

They pulled into the street. The sky was dark. The day had felt short, no thanks to the afternoon siesta. In fact, Brody realized he had no idea what time it was.

"What did they want from you?"

Sands eyes darkened as he looked out at the road. "Lets just say I have one of those faces…."

Despite the hour, which they found to be somewhere in the premises of 5 am, Sands insisted Brody show him the way to Del Rio. "I've lost enough time on this vacation, I'll be damned if I'm going to lose anymore."

.

The water tower stood on the top of a hill just off the highway. It was painted to look like wood, but the round shape betrayed it as being like any other fairly modern towers that stood everywhere in America. Brody stared up at it from the bottom of the hill. It stirred up things long forgotten, funny how a place can do that to a man. He'd had his first kiss there under that tower, a dry, awkward affair.

He climbed the hill, ignoring the twinge of pain in his knee as he stumbled over rocks in the dim light that came from the tower's few lights. A couple stunted, windblown trees grew bent forward, as if pointing them on.

The dawn began to light the sky as they reached the giant leg of the tower, and from there they could look down the other side of the crest of hills to see the remains of Del Rio.

The place was half old western front stores and half Spanish style mission and garrison and all of it was falling apart. A wood fence circled it like a thin skeletal snake, its sun-bleached wood splintering, some posts where on the ground where over 40 years of water had done it's wearing work on the dirt.

"A strange meeting place." Brody whispered to himself.

Maybe, maybe not. Depends who you're meeting."

"Well Yosemite Sam, who are you meeting?"

Sands took the first step drown the hill. He wasn't smiling, he was crouching. "I don't know yet."

.

When they reached the bottom of the hill the sun had almost broken free of the horizon and the dust that had settled began to dance again in the morning breeze. A tumbleweed blew by and Brody thought of every western shootout he'd watched on screen. He was again following Sands, something he couldn't understand but always seemed to be doing. Sands eyes were alert, scanning the fence, which they had nearly reached, and the buildings beyond. They closer they grew, the more disrepair became evident. Paint had pealed near completely from all the western style buildings, but the mission and courtyard with the military housing which stood farthest from them, had barely crumbled. The Spanish building materials held better against water and burning sun.

Sands pulled the Webley and hopped the fence, hurrying to the first wall, the side of what appeared to be a general store style building. The window by Sand's back was missing all but one pane of glass. Brody scurried after him.

"If you don't know who you're meeting, how do you know they're your friends?" He asked. "For all you know, they could be the one's who sent the man to the diner."

"Could be," Sands replied. "Now shut the fuck up, before you blow our cover."

Brody grit his teeth, attempting to keep himself from punching his ex partner in the throat.

Sands looked out from around the edge of the building. The main street. Dirt, deeply cut where years of rainwater had drained to a nearby stream. Little gravel remained. Across the street was what appeared to be a bank by the shape of the fake architecture. Next door to this was a hotel, next a textile market. Sands moved up onto the wood sidewalk, crouching behind a wood barrel. The next building down looked like the Saloon, one door out on the sidewalk, the other hanging by one hinge. They'd still been attached when Brody'd kissed under the water tower.

Something stirred in the direction of the mission. Sands motioned with his head for Brody to walk into the street.

"What? Are you crazy?" he mouthed back, shaking his head.

"Draw him out," Sands mouthed.

"YOU draw him out," Brody hissed.

Sands retreated to where Brody stood beside the building. "I'm the better shot here, so you go into the street."

Brody narrowed his eyes. "He. Will. Kill. Me."

Sands face contorted in anger. "If you don't," he pulled the hammer back on the revolver. "_I_ will kill you." He pointed the Webley in Brody's face. "Can you dig it?"

Brody peeked around the corner. Someone was definitely sanding in the arched entrance to the mission's courtyard.

Suddenly, he felt a great force hit the base of his back and he went stumbling into the street. Before he could even recover properly the phantom in the archway had covered the twenty meters and stood with another pistol aimed at his person. Splendid.

"Are you Sands?" this man, who had a heavy Mexican accent, asked when he had Brody's attention. Brody put his hands up.

"I? I-no. I don't even- Hey, there's no need- I'll just-"

He saw Sands come up swiftly and silently from the far side of the general store. He assumed Sands would knock the man unconscious. But in a split second the revolver was at the back of the man's head at a slight upward angle. A gun shot.

The man collapsed; brain separated from spinal cord.

Blood, grey matter, and bone scattered.

Brody caught some of the aftermath on his upraised hands. After a second of shock he began to shake it off in utter disgust. "Dear God, dear God!" Red streaked his hands, made poke-a-dots on the dirt.

"Americans eat ___ hamburgers a year," Sands was saying almost to himself as he flicked a piece of brain matter off his finger like a booger.

Brody stared in disbelief. "If we survive this, swear to me you will NEVER call me again."

Sands looked a little disappointed. "I'll consider you fully retired." He looked down at the body. "He wouldn't have survived too much longer in this business anyway, poor begger. Didn't even see it coming." He looked back up at Brody. "If it hadn't been me, it just would've been someone else." As he said it, Brody thought he say a flicker of pity in the man's eyes. As twisted as some of the things Sands had said could be, Brody had never felt how serious he had really been before. This man was truly dangerous, he'd just never realized to what degree.

"Now, that shot must have warned somebody of our presents…." Sands went to the moderate cover of the sidewalk and fake front buildings, and moved toward the mission.

Brody stood, unsure of what to do. After a minute, he realized that as unlikely as it may seem, beside Sands was probably the safest place to be in his weaponless situation.

Cursing himself, he followed suit.


	11. Surprise

Chapter 11: Surprise

The sunrises here are as fast as the sunsets are slow.

I crept forward, disappointed at the cursed light and it's possible betrayal of my position. Swirls of dust threatened getting in my eyes.

I made a mental note to try to visit the ocean before my next mission. My mood had been growing worse over the last few years and the water always seemed to sooth that. Something would give soon, I could feel it. Catastrophe was imminent.

But for now….

I spotted movement behind one of the second floor windows. Halting, I aimed at the window. When nothing reappeared I ran to the wall that surrounded the outer courtyard. I could sense Brody at my back a moment later.

"Since you're not armed, you can stay here," I told him, "and try not to do anything stupid."

I wasn't looking at him, but I could tell by his voice this hadn't made him happy. "Now you're trying to protect me? A minute ago you were shoving me in the cross hairs!"

"He wasn't going to shoot, which is another reason he shouldn't be in this sort of business."

"What business?"

"Theft."

There was a pause, then, "You aren't meeting a friend."

"Oh, golden star."

I moved to the arched entranceway that opened to the front walk. I peeked around the corner. Dust exploded on the wall near my face and I heard the sound bounce off all the surfaces in the courtyard.

"Fuck," I backed up, using the wall to shield my body.

"Where'd it come from?" Brody asked.

"Donno, too much reverb." I felt my cheek tingle and realized a chip of the wall must had flown off and cut me. "Son-of-a-bitch. You'll pay for that one, buster," I muttered, touching a drop of blood as it slid down to my jaw. A few inches higher and it wouldn't have taken me nearly as long to notice I'd taken a hit. Shit. I covered my eyes with my sunglasses. Blindness. Don't want that.

A fake cannon hole caught my attention on the far side of the wall from me, on the other side of the entrance. Deciding it would be a safer place to fire from, I took a spring across the opening and was followed by a gunshot. When I landed I took a quick inventory and found no unnatural holes in myself. Waving to Brody to keep him where he was, I darted over to the cannon hole.

It was larger than I thought, with about a two foot diameter. Slowly, I looked through, trying not to draw any attention. I couldn't see anyone. Drawing back, I reloaded, then peeked through again. Nothing.

There was an inconvenient line of overgrown brush in my way though, and it was hard to see much of the front of the building…. A thought struck me.

"Well hack off my leg and call me Silver…." Returning to the entrance, I motioned for Brody to pay attention. I tossed him my revolver and he returned an expression of shock. With exaggerated motions I took out my cigarette case, emptied the five remaining smokes and pocketed them, then popped open the front of my Texas sized belt buckle and dumped a handful of bullets out into my hand. I placed them in the case, as if I was demonstrating a magic trick. Brody gave me a "I'm not an idiot," look and I closed the case and threw it to him as well.

"What about you?" Brody signed with his hands.

We'd learned sign language at the Farm.

I pulled a bowie knife I had stowed away in my boot and gave him a thumbs up.

"I'm going in," I signed. "Keep him distracted in the front of the building."

"What? What if there's more than one?"

I shrugged.

He looked pissed for a minute, then shrugged as well.

I gave another inspection of the cannon hole. Nobody. Placing the knife between my teeth like I was in a Marines commercial I slipped through. I had to be careful not to rustle the brush too much as I moved, but luckily Brody started up the distraction after a minute and I was able to move more freely. Once a bullet ricocheted into my vicinity and I had to lay still for a minute until I decided it had been a fluke.

When I could no longer see the front of the building I slipped behind a well and looked up at the side of the mission. The only window was too far off the ground, and the wound I'd taken at the diner would prevent me from being able to pull myself up that far.

Cautiously, I proceeded to the back of the building.

The back courtyard was surrounded by a covered walkway with arches over the columns that held up the roof. Part of this ran across the back of the mission as well. Dry yellow grass and a few saguaro were the only living things I could see. This building seemed the only part of the attraction they'd really put any money into.

I found a back door but it was barred and locked with a surprisingly new padlock. A good rock or branch at the right angle could probably get it open, but would also make a racket. I backed up out of the walkway and studied the second floor. The window all the way to the right had no shutters, and the board on the inside was cracked open.

I probably only had a few minutes until Brody ran out of ammo.

Taking a quick inventory of the courtyard, I took a barrel from beside the back door and dragged it out of the walkway. A large wooden cross decorated the wall between two archways. Shrugging, I pushed the barrel up under it and praying all this old wood could handle 160 pounds, I hopped up onto the barrel, grabbed the top of the cross, and hauled myself up so one foot stood on either arm of the cross, then rolled easily onto the roof.

I saluted the cross, then went on my way.

The window board cracked easily and with little complaint. It let me into a hall that ran along the back of the building. I slid from the sill, preventing my boots from making too much noise on the wood board floor.

For a moment I just stood still, listening to the gunshots in order to find the right room. Considering the depth of the building I figured I had about twenty feet to cover across creaky old boards before attacking a man, armed with a gun, with only a bowie knife.

God I wished I'd brought two guns.

Taking the knife into throwing position, I placed one hand on the door. I only had one chance for a good throw that wouldn't kill him, just disarm him. Throw first, ask questions later.

I pushed. The door swung in.

My arm extended.

But there was something familiar….

The figure in the window turned. A gun pointed straight at my heart.

I didn't release the knife. I lifted my sunglasses.

She smiled. The gun lowered. A pair of rich brown eyes met mine and laughed at my surprise. "Took you long enough." She stood and walked over to me.

"You stole my-"

"Borrowed," she corrected. "Borrowed without asking."


	12. Old Friend

Chapter 12: Old Friend

I could have kissed him then, I really could've. The look on his face was a little hard to read. It seemed he was trying to look angry, but the shock and relief in his eyes made me think he was about to laugh. If memory serves me, this was the first time I had ever successfully surprised Jack.

His face finally broke and we just stood there a minute smirking at each other. Then a gun went off outside and a bullet struck the doorframe over out heads and we both fell into a squat.

"Tell him to cut that out and I _WILL_ kill him," I hissed.

In an instant he was at the window yelling orders down to the man to cease and desist.

I stood up slowly. "We can feed 'im, but then lets get rid of him after that, I have to talk to you."

He turned from the window, looked at me up and down. "Yeah, there's some explanation here I'm more than ready to listen to, and it better be good…."

.

I stood at my window again when he went down to talk to his friend Brody after we'd spent an awkward hour eating from a cook fire in the back courtyard.

They stood in the archway in the outer wall. I caught words as they bounced off of the building. Brody sounded rather angry, but after he was allowed to rant for a minute he ended up sounding more tired than anything else. I watched as Jack steered him artfully around the body of the man he'd shot, who'd been following me since Mexico and I still didn't know the identity of, and out toward the water tower. He had a hand on his friend's back as they climbed the hill, and by the time they reached the top, they were shaking hands. I shook my head. How the hell did he manage to do that sort of thing? He'd dragged his poor man on some mad trip, pissed him off to an obviously high degree, then talked to him for five minutes and all was well again?

Descending the stairs, I unlocked the front doors of the mission and stood there, leaning against the doorframe to await his return.

I had set up the bottom floor of the mission to function as my hideout. The stone and cement walls with their chipping yellow-pink paint were strong, the windows that had no shutters were boarded up. The bottom floor had only two rooms. The place wasn't very accurate to the inside of a real mission, it was too small for one, but the layout worked just fine for my purposes. The smaller of the two rooms I had a sleeping bag rolled out on a ledge that jutted from the wall, with a gas lamp hanging from a hook on the wall, the larger room still had a few chairs that hadn't fallen to complete decay yet and a fairly sturdy wood table over by the only window I had open. On the table I had a few bottles of rum, which I'd brought out when I first moved in, in anticipation of my visitor of course.

As I stood there, waiting for his return, I thought of the reason I had dragged him out here, what I had to tell him, and suddenly I wished he hadn't found me yet. What was I doing? An intervention? And what right did I have, showing up after so long to tell an old friend he isn't what he used to be? Where either of us what we used to be?

I, who'd been involved in over a dozen revolutions, planned on telling a man I'd fought beside that I thought he was living in a way that was going to get him killed? That he was on the wrong side?

We were unnatural. How long until we stopped being human?

I'd thought about this a great deal in the past few years. How can something without end have any value? I watched him appear again, walking up the dirt road toward me, dust floating in the air, the sun pounding down, starting to blur the air just above the ground. Maybe he'd taken the opposite track as I had, maybe he didn't think about it all. It would explain a few things. He stuck to instinct, leaving the philosophy to the aged.

As he came closer, I watched the familiar swaggering gate, the smirk on a know-it-all face. For a minute he did seem like the man I'd known to spring into the rigging just for the fun of it, or crawl out onto the figurehead at night when he didn't think anyone was around and stare out at the horizon. I could see it in there, somewhere, but it was covered with something darker now. It was buried in Sheldon Jeffery Sands.

"Sands," I said, trying the name out as he came into the courtyard through the arch. "Your name's even dry."

He stopped, the smile remained, but it was business-like. "So, Lucia. What is this all about?"

I sighed. "Come in for a drink first," I said.


	13. Dire Straights

Chapter 13: Dire Straights

She showed me a seat at the lone table beside the window that was decorated with a few unmarked bottles. The smell of alcohol filled my nose as she poured some of the dark amber liquid into two tin cups and slid one in my direction. We both picked them up simultaneously, as if proving neither had poisoned the other's glass. We brought them to our lips, but then we paused. She was the first to bring her's forward. I grinned genuine; a rarity.

"Take all you can," she said.

"Give nothing back?" I finished.

We slammed the rum back, then refilled.

"You're truly the only woman for me," I told her, swirling my drink and inhaling that stinging aroma. Maybe it was really the rum that'd preserved us. Light came in through the window and I looked over the rim of my sunglasses to see her better. "It's a miracle you've kept that face so pretty after so many battles."

She cocked an eyebrow. "I could say the same to you." She gestured to her own cheek, indicating the cut on mine. I'd forgotten about it.

She just laughed at me. Her bronze skin seemed like gold in the sun. It didn't matter how many centuries passed, her laugh always sounded like a girls. Fuck, she was the only person in the world I could even feel sentimental about.

"At least you're hair's getting long again," she said.

The last time I'd seen her was 1935, Florida. Prison break. That was the shortest I'd ever had it, slicked back with palmade under a fedora. Amazing. Seventy years apart and she was still more familiar feeling than a cell phone or a TV set. We just sat in silence for a while, trying to let the other's presence sink in, I suppose. As we sat, her smile slowly faded and her eyes fell from mine to her drink.

"We've always been there for each other in dire straights, huh?" she finally said.

I thought about this. "I'm not exactly at Death's door."

"No," she replied, glancing up for a moment. "But something is wrong."

I just stared at her, letting my features harden.

"So you know it too," she said almost to herself, taking a sip. "I stole it to get you out, get you away, grab your attention."

"Get me away from what?"

Our eyes met again.

"Sheldon Jeffery Sands."

I narrowed mine.

"You've always been the outlaw who somehow managed to be a good man. I came to North America to find him, so how is it that what I've found is a sheriff, not a pirate before me, who seems to have lost part of his soul?"

I ground my teeth.

"I've watched you for a while. Why are you working for the government?" she asked.

I let the silence settle again while I sat and studied her again, this time through my glasses. I took a deep drought of my rum.

"I joined because, it seems to me, the only people who are going to get away with anything in the future is going to be the governments, the governments and the large corporations who have them by the balls." I turned and looked out the window, for the first time in years I didn't care that everything I was feeling might be showing on my face. "Do you remember, Anamaria, what it felt like to stand on deck after a battle and know that you've won?"

She didn't reply.

"I can't. I remember standing there, the Pearl under my boots, the men cheering… but I can't FEEL it anymore."

"It wasn't the battles, Jack. I can remember standing on deck too. The water pink with foaming blood. You ever remember seeing a hand tossed in that gore? A hand with not a body, but wearing your friend's rings? It wasn't the battles."

She was right of course, but then what was it? And where had it gone?

"I need to get out. That's why I retrieved the compass from my safety deposit box in the first place, so it could point the way. That is until it went missing…. Do you know what a huge pain in my ass you've been in the last few weeks?"

She smiled, as if satisfied with her work. "Had to get you away from that world. Thought maybe you'd start thinkin' straight again. You have to quit the Company. You're going to get yourself killed."

I lifted my eyebrows at her. "Why? When I can use it? It's a means to an end now. With the compass I can find what I need to make a clean get away."

"You rely on it too much. It leads to what you want, not what you need. What is it you're after anyway?"

"In this case I'll let what I want get me what I need." I let the voice from my first life slip in, "Silver and gold, lass. Silver and gold. That's what I want. As for what I need…."

I put my boots up on the table and looked out the window again. "I intend to return to the ocean."

.

She could tell I was tired. I yawned as I sat there, feet up, chair tilted back.

"Why don't you take those ridiculous sunglasses off and take a nap while dispose of the body you've left on my doorstep?"

.

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Next time on WTF Sands is Jack Sparrow (which I don't own): The Battle of the Alamo

(PS I don't own Anamaria either)


	14. Remembering the Alamo

Sorry about Anamaria's name in the last chapter being Analucia, don't know why I was doing that, but I fixed it.

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Chapter 14: Remembering the Alamo

Flashes of fire, sparks, the smell of cordite in the breeze. The Battle for the Alamo.

I dropped down to reload as a bullet whizzed over my head. Beside me on the wall another man sprung up and fired a wild shot into the innumerable Mexican troops beyond the wall.

"Like fish in a barrel!" he hollered through the barrage as he ducked down to join me in reloading.

"Yes, but we're the ones in the bloody barrel," I told him. "This is ludicrous. Who the hell came up with this 'plan' anyway?"

The man glared at me. "We'll be legends, battling impossible odds for our country."

I scoffed. What good is legendary if you aren't round to enjoy it? "Have fun with that," I said, then peeked back over the wall and took careful shot, hitting the legs of my targets. The legend beside me reeled backward, blood spray misting my arm. I ducked and turned.

Half his face was gone. I watched his eyes roll back, and then covered his head with his fallen hat.

I observed the chaos on the walls. Texans, a few hundred, shooting and reloading and firing again into the thousands of Mexicans. The explosions and yelling and the pounding heat of the sun. I was at the southeast corner of the nearly rectangular fort facing Morales men. The western wall opposite me was taking a beating by Cos, Castrillion, Romero, and Amat's forces. They would break through soon; 12-foot walls aren't much of a deterrent.

I had several options to escape this madness:

One- Flee over the northeastern corner, which, as far as I could tell, was seeing no action. The trouble with this was that though I wore clothes that resembled more the Texans, my skin was dark like most of the Mexicans, and so if either side saw me darting away from the action I'd probably be shot as a deserter.

Two- Fight it out and hope my luck in battle was still with me after my decade sabbatical in Indian Territory, where I had encountered fighting, but nothing on such a scale as this. My luck had already kept me alive for a century, but I hated relying solely on fortune alone. If they breeched the wall, which they would, every Texan would be killed. Effectively, I was a Texan.

Three- Switch sides. I was only in the mess by chance anyway, and didn't have any stakes in it. I didn't really care who won. I wasn't fighting for ideals, I was fighting to survive. I'd faced terrible odds before, but I was a pawn here so my idea of winning was living through it. I couldn't give a damn about territory. This seemed like the safest bet, but I had to think of a way to get there without being shot first, and I didn't have much time to plan.

But improvisation has always been one of my greatest gifts.


	15. Running Down the Battery

Chapter 15: Running Down the Battery

I left him on my sleeping bag and buried the man, now without the top of his skull, under the wooden sidewalk on the side of the street. I remembered his face, or what was left of it, as belonging to a man I'd ran into in Mexico City a few months back. He'd told me he worked for a private American group who wanted to talk to me about something, but he was vague. I'd decided this wasn't something I wanted to be involved in and zipped off to a period of hiding before coming to see Jack. Nobody would be looking for him here. I figured we were safe.

After my work was done I rinsed off the sweat and blood in a steam of water from the single water pump in the place that still worked.

Jack slept until sundown.

I cooked some beans on the cookfire in the side courtyard and was stoking it into a respectable campfire when he emerged into the fading light of dusk. We sat on the dirt, leaning our backs on the warm stucco wall.

"So, where is it?" he asked. I reached into an inside pocket of my oversized army jacket and pulled out the small wooden box with the familiar dome on top. Dangling it by its leather strap I swung it in front of him like I meant to hypnotize him. His hand went out for it and I couldn't help but pull it out of reach for a second. He looked at me, lifted an eyebrow and smirked. I'd always liked that combination on him. A moment later he shot forward and snatched it from me. Immediately afterward he grabbed his shoulder and winced.

"Son-of-a-bitch. Almost forgot about that." He rolled the sleeve of his black t-shirt up to reveal a patch of gauze. "That fucker at the diner." I saw the Jack I'd cultivated earlier and watered with a little rum get covered in a layer of Sands.

"He wasn't actually supposed to hit you," I said.

He glared at me. "That was _your _doing?"

"He was meant to scare off Brody. I didn't want any of Sands' friends around when I talked to Jack."

He cooled it a little and turned back to the fire.

"I've probably got better dressings for it if you want any."

"It's just a nick really. If it leaves a mark it'll fade out in a few decades anyway."

Hearing someone else talk this way made me feel better about my sanity. There had been a few times in the past centuries where I'd wondered if I was just crazy and I hadn't actually lived all that time, that I was just deluded. I always came out of it, but still….

"Ever wonder why the scars from our first lives don't fade?" I asked.

"Just figured it came with the territory." We both stared at the fire for a long minute, then he turned to me. "Do you remember much of the nineteenth century?"

Flickers of images ran through my mind's eye: missions, New Orleans, the American Civil War. It was more like a dream.

"Like a jigsaw, little bits here and there, but the big picture's vague."

He nodded. "I've been dreaming about the Alamo."

"But I can remember my first hundred years like it was a few weeks ago."

"Like an old lady remembering childhood." He made his voice sound high and crackly. "I remember my fist sword fight with Jack Sparrow. I had the hots for him, boy howdy."

"Boy howdy?"

"That's the only part you're going to protest?

I shook my head, not only at him, but at myself, because there was truth in what he said. Only back then it was that crazy youthful lust for both body and mad personality (ignoring the fact that I, at the time, was in fact already 30 years his senior). Men for me now are little more than animals. I still treat my fellow humans with respect of course, but so many are becoming more and more predictable. Life has become like watching a film strip so many times you know the lines as well as the expressions. After living so long, life becomes a search for the people who break formula, the eccentric, genius and even the mad, because they make you feel alive again. Back in the 1930s I'd had a run-in with John Dillinger. He made me suspect Jack had had a kid he didn't know about.

Jack kept his eye on me in his peripheral as he leaned back against the wall again and turned to the fire. With the orange light dancing on his features, his expressive eyes were the only thing betraying his true age.

The longer he was with me the more I saw of Jack and the less of Sands, but I knew as soon as he went back, when he left this weird little place, Sands would return. Turning him off was like running down a battery, but turning him back on again was like flipping a switch, it might flicker once or twice, but it was almost immediate. I knew: I'd done the same thing before, in Cuba during the Revolution.

It was almost like turning off your soul, and sometimes it's the only way to get through without going insane.

I stood up.

"Where you goin'?" Jack asked.

"I need a drink," I told him.

"Bring me my cigarettes. They're on the table.

I turned when I reached the doorway. "Jack?"

He looked up from the fire. "Yeah?"

I waved my hand. "Nevermind." I just had to see him respond to the name.


	16. Not Alone

Haven't done a disclaimer in a while: Anamaria, Sands, and Jack Sparrow are not mine.

Sorry things have been slow, I've been quite busy lately.

Chapter 16: Not Alone

When she re-emerged from the door after a few minutes she tossed me my cigarette case while taking a drink from the bottle of rum. Her non-response to my playful provocation made me wonder what she was thinking about.

I love it when I can't read her.

She sat cross-legged right up next to the fire and poked it with a stick, letting it burn on the end like a small torch. I stretched, lit my smoke, and inched over the ground to sit next to her.

I was going to say something, but she cut me off.

"Do you think you have any kids? Sorry, weird question."

I lifted an eyebrow. "Ah. Well, better weird than dull." I thought. "There could be some little whelp out there somewhere. Why, you met 'im?"

"I don't know. I met my great great great great great grandson a few years ago. He was in his forties." She wasn't looking away from the fire as she said it. She watched the little flames on the end of her stick as they crawled slowly toward her hand. When they got close enough to her fingers she dropped it in the fire and glanced at me. "Tell me about something, anything, you did in the last century."

I thought about it a minute. She stretched out on the ground and before I knew it her head was on my leg. I tried to act like this wasn't a surprise and looked up at the stars. "I've got one," I said after a second. "Fishing…with Hemmingway."

She laughed. "Seriously!"

"Honest Injun. We went out at dawn and docked after dark off the Florida Keys. A pole, revolver, and shotgun each. He was fond of shooting at what he thought were Cuban Subs." I took a deep draw off my tobacco and laughed. "Don't know if he ever hit one. Great man, he was. It was a small boat, nothin' fancy, but when the wind kicked up the foam… don't think I'd ever smelled anything so damn inviting."

"Like coming home," she said.

We looked at the stars. "I want to go back to Tortuga some time."

"We need -."

"- a boat." I finished for her.

We looked at each other and smiled. She sat up, growing serious, and turned her body to face me, sitting back on her knees. She reached out and pushed the hair from my face, her fingers gliding over my cheekbones. I flicked my cigarette butt into the fire without looking, and felt the edges of my lips twitching.

The whites of her eyes seemed to glow in the darkness before she closed them, leaned forward, and kissed me. I shut mine and immediately returned the kiss, starting soft and growing more urgent. Dear God, I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to care so much for another person. In my head I could hear the ocean as the temperature of my blood shot up like a wave. She knew who I was, who I am. There's no other person on earth that I knew who could claim the same. When one lives as we do, the need for such a person is ten times that of anyone else. Closer.

I'm sure there were crickets in that courtyard, but all I could hear was our breathing. We stood up and I practically stumbled back into the wall. I pulled her into my arms again, freeing her hair from its tie and feeling it tickle my face as she embraced me. The want to be closer washes away any other thought. We must reassure each other that we are not alone. I kissed her neck, nuzzling my face into the warmth there, and for a long minute we did nothing but hold one another.


	17. Closeness

Chapter 17: Closeness

I felt a thrill as he kissed my neck and I pressed myself closer to him as we leaned against the old stucco wall. The last time this had happened had been the night before he'd been arrested at the Alamo. Out in some field beside a campfire in his small tent. I breathed in the smell of sweat, rum, and the tobacco of his hand rolled cigarettes. Some things really don't change.

He breathed into my ear and took handfuls of my hair. I teasingly bit the muscle between his neck and shoulder and felt him shiver. For a moment I smiled against his shirt, then he pulled back a little and held my face between warm hands. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he just closed his mouth and smiled that particular little grin of his before kissing me again. And again.

It was with this that I decided _yes_, _this is what I want_. Closeness, the reassurance of life. He gently pulled off his shirt and I pressed a cheek up against his chest and felt his heartbeat, the same as it had been near 300 years before. I slid the military jacket I wore off and the suede tank top under it. He sighed and wrapped his arms around me and I nodded to the door and we went in to my sleeping bag with all guard down.

We caressed scars with no wonder as to where they came from. We didn't have to lie and we didn't have to hold our tongues. Together, we were free.

Afterward, fulfilled and still tingling, we lay there with limbs a-tangle.

"So," I said in the room dimly lit by a single gas lamp.

"What?" he asked, his eyelids heavy despite having just woken up two hours before.

I stared at him, then shrugged. "Nevermind. We'll talk in the morning."

His arms encircled my shoulders again he made a little growling noise in his throat as he pulled me against him again and rested his cheek on the top of my head. I slid a hand over his bare ribs and let his warmth lull me into sleep.

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***

So, that was a little weird for me. I'm not used to writing that sort of thing, especially from a female POV…how did I do?


	18. Improbable, but Not Impossible

Chapter 18: Improbable, but Not Impossible

They claim 179 men crossed that damned line Travis marked in the dirt, but I was the 180th, and I was dragged. Thirteen days, no water. I was getting out.

It was a turbulent ride that would leave over a dozen dark bruises, but every bump meant I was closer to freedom. The spinning made me sick, the darkness disoriented, and I coughed as particles of black powder went up my nose and stuck to he back of my throat. I gasped after a particularly bad jolt as I pushed the fuse out its entry hole before it blew me all to hell. I was lucky the barrel wasn't too big, or I would have been emerging in several parts.

Outside, I felt a man trip over my black powder barrel escape pod and several more charged past in the direction I'd come from. Good, this meant I was breaking the front line.

A few seconds and I halted. I waited until most of the human and horse sounds were past and tried to remember which way was up. I kicked at the wood by my feet, hoping the sound of cannon and gunfire would mask the sound. I felt weak with dehydration, but the wood began to crack. A minute later I crawled from the barrel, stumbling as if drunk. The sun blinded me momentarily, but as my eyes adjusted I saw I was several meters behind the troops, and well beyond the walls of the Alamo. I smirked in satisfaction at my bizarre but effective stunt.

"Improbablea… pero no imposible." I laughed, turned to leave, and ran smack into a commanding officer's horse. Stumbling backward, I looked up at the silhouette above me.

"_And what do you think you're doing_?" it asked me in Spanish.

I looked back at the almost empty barrel of black powder beside me. "_Reloading_," I lied, trying on his accent over my own Spanish. He looked at me hard. I was glad for the black powder now, for it darkened my already deeply tanned skin and dark hair. After a pause, he turned in his saddle and pulled a full rifle from the back of his horse. He tossed it down to me, then pointed toward the battle. I glanced over my shoulder at it. They were breaking through the walls, finally. Looked like I'd gotten out just in time. I'd be damned it I were going back.

"_What're you waiting for_?" the officer asked. His horse shifted under him.

"_Gracias me Amigo. Pardona Me_." Then I shot him in his right hand so he couldn't fight back with a gun. He doubled over his maimed hand and fell from his saddle with a yell of pain and curses. I jumped into the horse before anyone in the lines in front of me could notice and charged off, the cooling air blowing in my face. I let them fight their battle, because it sure as hell wasn't mine.

180 crossed Travis's line, but they only found 179 skeletons in the ashes.


	19. Flipping the Switch, FollowingtheCompass

Chapter 19: Flipping the Switch, Following the Compass

When I woke up he was already dressed and standing lazily in the back doorway. I watched him without moving. He was smoking and looking at the closed compass in his hand. Then, he flipped it open and waited, watching the arch of the needle.

He made a sort of "hmmm" sound in his throat. "Southwest," he said, perfectly aware that I was awake. Even in his first life it was hard to pass something over on him.

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I dropped him off in front of the hotel he specified in San Antonio.

"Jack," I said as he hopped out of the passenger side of my military style jeep. He turned and I made sure to meet his eyes.

"Remember what we talked about. When you want out, I can help. Oh, and be careful."

"Maria, Maria," he said, a smirk on his face and a light in his eye. "Who am I?" he asked, giving a little bow as he backed a step or two from the jeep.

"That's _exactly_ what I'm talking about," I replied, pointing at him accusingly, but I couldn't help but laugh as well.

He gave a smile, turned around and began swaggering toward the hotel doors. A second later he waved back over his shoulder and I heard him drawl: "See you around, sugarbutt."

By the time he reached the lobby, he'd be Sands again.

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Two weeks later a file came sliding across Sands' desk. _Culiacan, Mexico_ the tab read. He threw a satisfied Cheshire grin to the messenger, who did not return his enthusiasm.

"Something more stimulating than paper shuffling, I presume?" he asked.

"Far more," came the reply. "Travis wants you down there ASAP."

Travis and he shared a mutual dislike, but Sands would admit he had prior prejudices for the name.

"Excellent."

The more Sands read the file the faster his brain ticked. By the time he closed it he was convinced he could use this as a pick to unlock his cage.

On the plane to Mexico he checked the compass again. It pointed forward. Everything was going according to plan.


	20. Intermission

Here is where the movie takes place, so I figure I'll give you a soundtrack:

Spanish Ladies –Bill Frisell (On Rogue's Gallery)

Tribal Thunder –Dick Dale (b/c I think Sands would love this music beyond that musical bit)

Remember the Alamo –Donovan (can find on You Tube)

Black Wings –Tom Waits (the cover by Medina and Joyce is awful)

Red Right Hand- Nick Cave (can find on You Tube)

Folsom Prison-Johnny Cash (easily found on You Tube)

Back of a Stranger- Dirtfoot (highly recommend this band)

House of the Rising Sun – The Animals (You Tube)

Highwayman- The Highwaymen (You Tube)

That's Life –EELs (only bad recording on You Tube…Check their website)

Sands Theme (of course)

Grounds for Divorce- Elbow (just the part about the compass and the bad ass bass line)

A Dying Sailor to his Shipmates –Bono (Like the song more than the musician, You tube)

Re-watching OUTM here with Sands as 300 yr old Jack is rather entertaining.


	21. I Have A Boat

Disclaimer: I do not own Sands, Anamaria, or Jack Sparrow

Chapter 20: I have a Boat

The sun beat down like a cat-o-nine tails. The wall behind his back felt as hot as the small fires burning in the streets. The best laid plans of mice and men….

Sands could almost feel the adrenaline leaving his veins. He was slowly sliding down the wall. When he reached the ground the adrenaline was long gone, and next the painkillers would go, he could already tell they were fading. His head felt worse than his blown out legs.

_My God_, he thought_, all this way, and this is it? _

Pain cut the thought short. The pain was taking charge, along with the realization of what had happened, and what it meant. It was like quicksand; the more he thought and struggled , the more doomed he felt. And he felt on the verge of madness. In a raspy whisper he began:

"_Wrap me in my country's flag_

_and lay me in the cool blue sea_

_Let the roaring of the waves_

_My solemn requiem be…."*_

"I have a boat," a voice said. He lifted his head.

"_And I will find my_…."

"Shh," the voice ordered. "Don't even fucking start singing that, you bastard."

Anamaria. He felt her right beside him. He closed his mouth. If there was one person he would be happy to see.

"You're a mess," she said. "You're lucky I have so much field experience."

Sand's grit his teeth against the pain as she slid an arm around him and urged him to his feet. Hisses of torture issued from him, but to his credit he didn't whimper as they made their way toward Anamaria's awaiting jeep. When she helped him into the passenger seat she pulled a metal med kit from the glove compartment. A moment later she stuck him with a large dose of morphine.

"That should help for now, till we get someplace safer, then I'll do more." She climbed into the driver's seat and Sands waited for the drug to begin working as the car bumped out of the city. Maybe he should have told her he did heroin in the Seventies.

God his eyes hurt. God.

But he couldn't bring himself to touch something that was no longer there.

"Something's gone wrong with you, Jack. I thought…. I told you this before. The survival switch. I need to take you through it, I've escaped it, so can –"

"Where are we going?" Sands asked.

"Somewhere safe, near the sea. You've been land born too long. You told me a year ago you were getting out. Now I'm here to take you myself."

Sands wasn't paying much attention. Even morphine couldn't make up for blood loss and psychological trauma. It had been a long time since he'd faced something so weird. He began to shake.

No eyes? No _sight_? No _horizon_?

No death.

Pure fear struck him in the heart like a freezing poison. Could he live like this, forever? He could feel his heart jump up to an unhealthy rate for someone who'd just lost so much blood, as what was left of his adrenaline returned.

Anamaria noticed his rapid breathing and reached over to touch his arm.

He gasped when he felt her hand and flinched away.

"Stay with me, I'll pull over soon and do something about the bullet wounds. Focus. Don't let yourself go into shock. This isn't your first time being shot, Jack. You know the drill." But she sounded worried.

But he _could_ die. He was pretty sure.

Live forever, _blind_.

He _could_ _die_.

He focused on every wound, every inch of pain. His limbs were starting to feel cold in the hot Mexican sun.

_Yes_.

He might be immortal, but he wasn't invincible. The Fountain keeps you young and healthy, but that didn't mean you couldn't die. Then:

_What are you doing!_ An inner voice cried._ Who are you?_

"Sheldon Jeffery Sands," he mumbled.

_NO._

"Central Intelligence Agency"

_NO._

_Who are you?_

"Jack? What're you saying? Are you still with me?"

His face was slack, the blood dried on pale cheeks.

Anamaria felt panic erupt in her chest. "Jack!" She looked frantically from the road to Sands and back again several times. "Damnit Jack, talk to me!" her voice cracked. The road seemed less and less important. They'd just left the city behind.

"Stay with me, damnit! You loco son-of-a-Bitch! I will NOT allow you to LEAVE ME HERE!" Realizing what she was saying, she covered her mouth. Her eyes burned. Tears? She hadn't cried over anything other than physical pain in a century. There was something _wrong_ with that. Her eyes stung as the tears dripped and mingled with the sweat. There was something wrong with both of them, and God strike her dead as well if they weren't going to be fucked-up _together_.

A harbour: a grove of trees. She pulled the jeep over.

Sands was moved carefully from the front seat onto the ground. The med-kit was open again. Deft, well experienced hands worked diligently. Tears streaked her face, but her mind cleared as she began to work.

Cut. Probe. Pluck. Reset. Clean. Stitch. Bandage. Repeat.

He groaned. Good. That meant he lived.

She felt the perspiration gathering on her forehead, trickle down and re-moisten the tear tracks.

God, the blood.

Reluctantly, she reached for his sunglasses while reciting a prayer in a language only familiar to certain Caribbean language specialist. Her mother had taught it to her.

Slowly, very slowly, she slid the glasses off. As it became more obvious what they hid, her hand began to shake and she had to convince herself to give one quick yank to remove them the rest of the way.

She turned and took several gulps of air, her stomach gurgling at the sight. Then, steeling herself, she took a cloth and began wiping away the blood. Once it was gone things looked marginally better. She'd seen missing eyes before, but that wasn't what made her sick.

They weren't just gone, they'd been _removed_. Some twisted fuck had done this like ART. He was meant to survive, to survive and to suffer what had been stolen from him.

Anger boiled inside her.

The single good result was she would only have to prevent infection. Taking a length of bandage, she began the painful task of winding it around his head to hide the horrible holes. Then, she took an army blanket and spread it in the back of the jeep and maneuvered him onto it tenderly. She wrapped his now half-naked body in it and took his pulse; slow but steady. Relief poured over her. How he'd avoided shock she didn't know. Climbing into the driver's seat again, she felt a great weariness weighing her down.

If she could just get to the sea. But it would be too far for now. She'd go as far as she could on the energy she had left and set up camp before nightfall. She looked over her shoulder at Sands.

This would be hard. Somehow though, it would be okay. If only they could get to the sea, and her boat. Then she could get Jack back, if she could get Jack back anymore. They would think of something.

"Dire straights," she whispered to herself, and turned the engine over.

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***

Should this be the end? If anything it's going to be a while before I can update it, and the next part could get rather angsty. What do you guys think?


	22. Blindfolded

Chapter 22: Blindfolded or Darkness Darkness

By the time Sands felt truly felt aware of his surroundings again, he could hear water lapping shore. He had vague memories of walking in the dark, excruciating pain and gunfire, before a bumpy vehicle ride.

He laid very still, feeling cloth tightly bound to his face; he was blindfolded. He hated being blindfolded.

He could tell he lay on the ground outside, for no barrier blocked the sound of the water, there was a breeze on his skin and the sun warmed him. The dirt was slightly sloped facing the sound of the water, and he could smell vegetation. Was he still in Mexico?

Other than the blindfold, he was not bound in anyway. He made sure to lie very still and fain sleep while he listened, trying to hear if there was anyone around him. The wind rustled grass. The water moved over stone. Birds sang. Insects buzzed. After a few minutes he started to reach up to remove the blindfold. Pain coursed through his arm. In response, other muscles flexed and both his legs received similar shocks. He bit back a gasp. In his head, behind his eye sockets felt like double migraines. A wave of nausea passed through him and he suddenly felt dizzy. He didn't dare move again until it passed. He stayed still, taking shallow breaths. This was worse than any feeling he'd ever experienced, or so he could remember.

Then, a distant sound: a voice. A woman's voice: singing*. It was something to focus on, though he couldn't discern words yet. The voice came closer, and he could make out the sound of heavy soled shoes of boots tromping on the earth. He faked sleep.

_Underestimate me, bitch_, he thought.

The singing stopped as the boots came closer. Then, near his left shoulder, they stopped. He could almost feel her crouched down beside him. Suddenly, fingers brushed the artery at his neck. At almost the same instant Sands instinctively reached as if he were being attacked. His good arm flashed up and he grabbed the back of the hand at his neck and turned it up and over as he quickly sat up despite the pain it sent though his whole body. It was all one swift moment, and she was sent turning and kneeling, not fighting his pin.

"Ai! What the hell! _Usted bastardo loco, es que! _Jack, damnit_!_"

Somewhere in his subconscious, he knew he trusted this voice.

Because of this, and because it hurt so much to exert force, he let up. He heard her scramble back a few feet. Good.

"Well, I guess that means you're feeling better."

.

He was pale. She rubbed her shoulder where the muscle had been stretched, and stared at him, too exhausted to do much else.

It had been three days since Anamaria had scooped him off the sidewalk, broken, bloody and blind. He'd been in and out of consciousness since, never moving much, muttering to himself things she couldn't make out. The tone hadn't suggested he would be in good spirits when he finally broke the surface.

His face was passing through a myriad of expressions before her now. She was so used to taking cues from his eyes though, that she couldn't read them fast enough to keep up. Anger? Pain? Fear? Hate? Shock? Then, a disconcerting blank calmness: realization. Very slowly, his hands began to move toward his face. Her first instinct was to stop him, but she knew it would have to happen some time.

She took a few steps back, just in case.

As his fingers traced the bandages his expression hardened. He was remembering. Remembering things she didn't know.

She had traced him to Culiacan after finding out he'd been shipped to Mexico. She knew where he'd stayed, she knew which restaurants he'd frequented, and who he'd spoken to. Then he walked into that damned café on the Day of the Dead and came out the back being bodily dragged and was dumped into the trunk of a black car. She'd pursued, but they lost her in the chaos of the parade rout. She didn't find him again until the square, hours later, propped against the wall looking like one of the decorations.

.

Sands felt the bandage. That was what it was: a bandage, not a blindfold, he realized this now. He remembered an electrical buzzing sound and a face, a grey, evil-looking face.

For an instant he thought he saw it, right there in front of him. His heart jumped, but it disappeared. Then, he remembered what happened, he felt a rush of fear pierce his stomach and his fingers frantically tugged at the gauze tied at the back of his head.

_No, no, no_._ It wasn't real_.

The bandage gave, he pulled it. It stuck to his face and he let out a startled painful sound as it peeled away. His entire face suddenly felt on fire and numb simultaneously.

And he saw nothing. He stood, the adrenaline masking the pain.

He threw his head back, looking for the sun he could feel: not even a red light.

He took three quick intakes of breath, covered the holes in his face with the palms of his hands and pressed.

The pain cut deep and took all thought away. He yelled with it, blocking all sound from his ears.

He yelled until he ran out of air, and then he sank to his knees feeling dizzy and weakened. The ground took a sharp turn. He could feel his shoulder hit the dirt, a wave a pain, and then numbness.

….

The song he hears Anamaris singing:

Darkness Darkness - The Youngbloods

Darkness, darkness, be my pillow

Take my head and let me sleep

In the coolness of your shadow

In the silence of your deep

Darkness, darkness, hide my yearning

For the things I cannot be

Keep my mind from constant turning

Toward the things I cannot see now

Things I cannot see now

Things I cannot see

Darkness, Darkness, long and lonesome

Ease the day that brings me pain

I have felt the edge of sadness

I have known the depth of fear

Darkness, darkness, be my blanket

Cover ne in endless night

Take away, take away the pain of knowing

Fill the emptiness of right now

Emptiness of right now, now, now

Emptiness of right now

Darkness, darkness, be my pillow

Take my head and let me sleep

In the coolness of your shadow

In the silence of your deep

Darkness, darkness, be my blanket

Cover ne in endless night

Take away, take away the pain of knowing

Fill the emptiness of right now

Emptiness of right now, now, now

Emptiness of right now

Oh yeah, oh yeah

Emptiness, emptiness

Oh yeah


	23. Three Second Memory

Disclaimer: I own neither character… or rather I don't own any of the three.

BTW I'm wondering how many people are actually following this now? Leave a review?

Chapter 23: Three Second Memory

Amamaria sat on the edge of her boat, the Sparrow, and starred down at the water as it lapped against the wooden hull. They were still docked in an inlet sheltered by tall grass and even taller trees in the east coast of southern Mexico.

Sands was below deck, still asleep. She'd made sure to lock up all her guns.

He didn't remember who she was yet, and it worried her. After returning from her trip inland for fresh water this morning he'd reacted favorably to her voice after he'd pinned her. He may trust her on instinct, but she could tell that's all it was. If he didn't know her, than he was still Sands, and deeper in his own deception than ever before.

Lies can be dangerous. You tell a lie long enough you might find yourself believing it. Jack had an extreme personality and he created extreme personalities to live under, but Sands was the farthest she'd seen him drift from his true self. Unless of course, this is what Jack had turned into. She shook her head. She would not believe that. There may be parts of Sands in Jack, or the other way around, but Jack could not have turned into that. Jack would never be so focused on Balance, nor would he be anyone's, country or business', dog.

She would have to be tough. To have Sands pinning Jack down would be a hard thing to undo, but she'd stand firm. If the CIA found him they would ship him back to the States and throw him on a couch, prescribe pills and stamp out Jack as being the delusion, never knowing the truth was the opposite. They would feed the Sands persona.

This, she felt, would be an affront to all that was good in mankind.

A large fish stared up at her from the water as the sun crept toward the horizon. She waved to it and it made a bubble. After a few seconds it dove, disappearing into the darkening water. As she gazed after it, a name came to her.

"Calypso," she whispered. For a moment she couldn't breath, the thought was so sudden.

But even if Anamaria could get Jack back, Jack had left Calypso 200 years ago. He may have been a favorite then, but who knew if those sentiments held? Old Gods are finicky and easily offended. Calypso would do no favors for a Mortal who didn't believe in her, and Sands didn't seem to believe in anything, so getting Jack back was imperative.

.

Below, Sands dreamt.

He was in a bar, but it shifted between the kind of bar it was: a Mexican cantina, a western Saloon, a Speakeasy, and a European bar for the Forties.

Steadman sat across from him, his clothing changing to fit the surroundings.

"You know, they say a fish has only a three second memory," he was saying. "Can you imagine? I guess you'd never get bored."

Sands stood up, leaving the loquacious man at the table. He knew the other people in the bar, but couldn't remember any of their names. None of their clothes changed the way Steadman's did. He felt intoxicated and nearly stumbled into a table populated by gold miners. Three men in 1970's attire stood at the bar with instrument cases at their feet. A gaggle of rough looking men in pin-stripes and fedoras stood by the door. A few cowboys played poker in the corner.

A pirate with a large brimmed hat turned from the bar and suddenly Sands felt alert and ready to fight. The man grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up to the bar. He had long grey hair and a thin beard over bad teeth. Sands jerked away and found a gun in his waistband. He drew it. A flintlock. The pirate laughed, his yellow eyes glowing.

"Don' waste the bullet, Jack."

"Why does everyone call me that?"

_Because that's who ya are._

"What?" Sands said, turning to face the rest of the bar to find the source of the strange British voice. But it was empty. The bar had stopped shifting and now remained an old pub. He couldn't place it, but he'd been here before. He looked frantically around, aiming the flintlock at the open air.

"Where are you, Goddamnit. I can't see you!"

_I'm righ' where you are, mate. _

"That doesn't make sense." Sands looked behind him.

_Maybe not to you._

Sands blinked hard, and when he opened his eyes, everything was black.

He lay in a bunk, a bunk that rocked as if on water.

Carefully, he snaked a hand out and felt a wall on the left side of him. The other side fell off after only a foot. It was a small bunk. The size almost guaranteed the boat suspicion was correct.

"I have a boat," he could remember the female voice telling him this. Then she had picked him up, bandaged his wounds, and brought him here. But why?

_Because, she's your friend._

"Great, you followed me. I don't have any _friends_," he grumbled.

_She's a' exception to the rule. Trust me._

"First I have my eyes gouged out, now I'm hearing voices. Shit."

_You're the interloper 'ere, ya just don't know it yet._

"You don't exi-st." Sands said to the darkness in a sing-song tone.

_You don' exist, mate. You'll see._

"Ha. Ha." He said flatly.

Footfalls were heard above. It was her. She wore heavy boots.

.


	24. A Pirate's Life For Me

Chapter 24: A Pirate's Life for Me

Sands heard the creaking of wooden stairs and turned his blind face toward it. A habit of the seeing. The footsteps were light and careful despite the boots.

"Don't worry, girly, the freak out's over."

"I highly doubt it," he heard her whisper to herself. "Don't call me Girly," she added, louder, after a pause. "I'm older than you."

Sands snorted. "Right."

_By about thirty years, actually._

"Bullshit," he grumbled to the voice.

"Believe what you want for now. It doesn't matter. Just don't call me Girly."

Sands tried to sit up. There was still a bandage on his face but it was thinner than the one he'd pulled off earlier. He felt feverish, but the pain was masked by what he guessed was morphine. Finally, he got his aching legs to slide over the edge of the bunk. By this point he realized he was wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt. Both legs sported bandages as well.

How very dignified.

He could hear her moving along the wall opposite him, like a large cat in an enclosure.

"Don't worry, I don't bite hard," he said.

"Yeah, well, you might have rabies," came the reply.

He chuckled. "Touché." He liked her. "If I can't call you girly, what should I call you?"

Her feet stopped. A cabinet door squeaked open. "Lucia," she told him.

"Oh, first name basis with the captor."

"That's my last name."

Sands frowned. "Ah."

"And I'm not your captor. If anything I'm your savior." A bottle clanked. "Rum?"

_Yes!_

"No," Sands said flatly, just to annoy the voice. "But if you have tequila, or whiskey…."

He heard liquid splashing in a glass. Footsteps approached. He reached out and took the tumbler with little effort. He smelled it. Whiskey.

"You're not having any?"

"Somebody's got to sail this thing."

Boat confirmed. "Where are we docked?"

"Don't worry about your former employers. They won't find you here."

"_Where_," he insisted, a little more force behind the word.

A pause.

"Off the coast of Cosumel"

His adrenaline spiked a bit, he felt it in his stomach. "That's on the Panama side. If you want me to not worry about US agencies, why the hell are we so close to them?"

"Because," her voice was louder now. "Getting here from the west coast through the canal is a hell of a lot easier than going around the horn. You're so paranoid, it's not close at all. Damn, I _do_ need a drink."

What sounded like a shot glass hit a tabletop, then a second after the sound of pouring it hit again. He heard her exhale.

"I want you to come topside." He could feel her staring at him, a penetrating gaze.

"Why, so I can fall in?"

"That depends on you, and you need the air."

"I _need_ clothes."

"Your duffle bag is at the foot of the bed. I'll be on deck."

With that she left him alone.

How the hell was he supposed to put on his clothes?

_One leg at a time_.

"You, shut the fuck up."

_You're the one who lost our eyes, mate. An eye patch has flare, this is just ridiculous._

"The Pirate is Not Real," Sands reassured himself and began to feel around for his clothes. She was testing him, seeing what he could manage on his own. Or it was a dare.

Anamaria waited a half hour before she heard him on the stairs. She stood at the top, keeping quiet. His movements were slow but precise and the fact that he was even climbing such steep stairs at all only three days after receiving multiple gunshot wounds and having his eyes torn out was impressive. Sands was surprisingly calm for his situation, nothing like that morning. His good arm slid along the wall, the bandaged one he held close, hand in the pocket of his dark brown slacks. His black boots found the edge of every step, but his face twitched in the painful effort to lift them.

By the time he reached the top he looked like she could nudge him and he'd fall over, but not without trying his damnedist to take her with him.

He smirked through his obvious discomfort. "Ta da."

"Impressive."

"Where are my sunglasses?"

"You can't take off the bandages yet, the risk of infection is still high, and trust me, you don't want that."

He gave her an angry look, but didn't argue. Her logic was too sound.

"Why the hell'd you drag me up here?" he snarled.

The last of twilight was fading from the sky and soon the stars would blaze over the great expanse of sea in front of them. This would be so much easier if he could see.

She put a hand on his arm. He jerked and bared his teeth.

"Don't touch me," he ordered.

She felt her temper flare again. "And how do you thing those bandages got on you, you ungrateful prig? You're lucky I could find you after the mess you made! You could have died there if it weren't for me-"

"Then you did me a great disservice, didn't you? Better dead than helpless and at the mercy of anyone who happens by."

"Sure, but you're on a boat. I'm the only other person here."

"Yes, and I'm at your mercy, and I don't even know who the hell _you_ are. You have an accent that is completely umplaceable other than being a mish-mash of everything in the South-western hemisphere, you claim to be older than me but you sound like you just graduated college-"

"What is your first clear memory?"

"What?"

"Answer the question." Her voice seemed to rattle in his chest despite being neither bass or loud. For a second he believed her to be older, much older, than him. He had to shake off the feeling.

Then, he realized his first clear memory was moving in at Langley.

_Swimming with sharks, Sheldon Sands…._

"What do you know," he mumbled.

_Everything you don't._

"Well then, explain away!" he said aloud, spreading his arms wide, no longer caring what this woman thought of him or how mad he looked.

"…Jack?" Anamaria asked.


	25. Further Discoveries, More Complications

Chapter 25: Further Discoveries, More Complications

_She's talking to me. And you better be nice, she's a formidable opponent._

"What are you talking about?" he faced Anamaria "And _you_, you stop calling me that."

She took a step back. "Dear Lord, you've made some sort of disconnect. _I_ never did _that_. This is worse than I thought."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Jack, can you hear me?"

_Tell her yes._

"And why the hell would I do that? Jesus fucking Christ, what's going on!" He felt fear creeping into him. Bloodlust and gunfights he could deal with, this was going too far. External factors where something to be manipulated. This? He didn't know what this was.

"At some point, in the last few days, you not only threw the survival switch, but you can't turn it off again. You've taken your own traits, given it a name and, and he's taken over. But you're still in there, aren't you? He can hear you."

_Say yes, or I will start singing._

"Oh God."

_Yo ho yo_-

"Shut up, shut up! Yes, he can hear you!"

"Oh thank the Gods, old and new!" She grabbled his shoulders as if to look him in the eye. "At least I know you're in there."

He shook free violently, stumbling backward. "I told you: Don't. Fucking. Touch me."

"Jack, when did it happen?"

"Jack? Jack!" Sands paused to let his blood stop boiling. "When the hell did I become a piece of meat? The third wheel?"

"When you decided to become your own personality," she huffed. "Now tell me his answer."

"He didn't. Musta taken the first train to Neverland," he replied while desperately trying to remember something from his childhood.

"Shit," he heard her saying as she turned from him.

The temperature was lowering, it must have been past sunset. It was calming.

"How, exactly, do you know the-" he was going to say 'voice in my head' but was already worried about his sanity the way things were, so decided on "-Jack."

"Because he's you."

"What's that even mean?"

"I mean Sheldon Jeffery Sands, you have shanghaied Jack Sparrow's body."

"_Shangaied_?"

"Means Hi-Jacked."

"I know what it _means_. But it's _impossible_."

"Tell _him_ that."

"I will, next time I _hear_ from him." He felt like pushing her over the edge of the boat, but such an act would strand him on a boat and he didn't know how far he was from land. Besides, he couldn't sail even if he could see. He'd never done so.

.

The sea was calm, the moon was up, and Annamaria felt no closer to surfacing Jack than in the morning. And why the hell had he created a personality so _infuriating_? She searched her mind for something to spark memories. She turned back to face him. He was still sanding as before, bandaged face eerily 'looking' directly at her. His fists were clinched his back was tense, but the rest of him seemed relaxed. Surprising, considering his state.

She pulled his wallet from her back pocket. She'd put it there while disarming his black bag. She opened it and slid a photo out. "Tell me something," she said, looking at the picture. "Tell me, why is it you keep a picture of you and Keith Richards in your wallet, that was apparently taken during a 1978 tour, and yet you look nearly the same as you do now?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I'll tell you: because Jack met him at a concert and had their picture taken together because that man is the spitting image of _his_ _father_, a man who has no photographs taken of him. And you look the same because Jack hasn't aged in over 200 years!"

"You're crazy too…." He whispered, nearly to himself.

"But the picture-"

"I don't _see_ any goddamn_ picture_," he spat.

.

.

.

Just wanted to make sure I posted something this week, even if it was short.


	26. Shared Humanity

Chapter 26: Shared Humanity

Three more days and not another word from Jack, at least as far as she knew. Sands, who rarely came topside, would sometimes talk to himself, especially when he appeared to be sleeping. She guessed he took naps on and off because he never seemed to be still for more than an hour at a time. Because of this, she found herself sleeping very lightly out on the main deck. Would he manage to find his guns? She kept his Webley on her hip, just in case. She didn't want to hurt Jack, but to shoot at Sands was a temptation she had to suppress every day.

Currently it was going on night, but the sunset looked far less friendly than usual; grey clouds made dark blots on the horizon like dark ink running into the pastels.

.

Sands lay in the bunk below deck, listening to the creaking of the wooden hull. At first he'd thought the noise was annoying, but as time wore on -slow in the darkness with nothing to do- he came to understand what certain sounds meant. He'd been trying to collect information for the last 3 days, only interacting with _the native_ when he couldn't help it. She insisted on calling him Jack, which he responded to coolly with Girly, which usually made her huff and leave him alone. Every so often _the voice_ would intrude, but usually not for long and only after he slept. At first he tried to stay awake, but his injuries and the morphine (which she now left up to him to administer) made this very difficult, so he'd taken to only sleeping for short periods to avoid dreaming too deeply.

The sounds tonight were ominous. The creaking was too loud, the changes in direction too sudden. Something was wrong. If he went on deck now, he knew he'd smell rain. The heat would be dropping, the breeze coming off the land for the night fighting against the coming gale.

The sails cracked overhead, he could hear them even through the door at the top of the stairs. He'd deduced by now that they were not, I fact, at sea, but moored somewhere. He couldn't tell if they'd moved at all since he'd been brought on board. The boat seemed too large for one person to man anyway (a forty footer?), and if there was a third person on board they had to be the quietest person on the planet. He neither heard more than one pair of footsteps overhead nor any conversation. But then, he didn't know much about sailing. If they were moored, how far was it to land, and in what direction? He could tell the direction if he stood outside at sunrise or set and feel the breeze. But distance? He could hear gulls, but they could fly miles from shore. As far as overpowering someone… he was still not in the best condition for hand to hand combat, as if he ever would be again. Besides, he didn't know if she was armed. And there was Jack, the voice, who kept urging in the back of his mind that Lucia or whatever her name was, was somehow on his side. This of course, could only be bullshit. That's what he told himself. But every so often he would feel it, an instinctual trust alien to him. It was like being the only two humans in a strange world, drawn together simply for the shared humanity.

The sway of the boat became more dramatic. Sands sat up. The shit would hit the fan soon. He stood, glad he didn't suffer from sea sickness. The rocking did make him stumble a little though. He caught himself and cringed at the pain in the thigh of the leg he'd used.

"Baton down the hatches," he muttered as he made his way to the stairs.

.

On deck Anamaria made sure all the sails were secured down. She'd moved farther from the land two days before to find better fishing and to avoid attention from anyone on land, if there was anyone. Now she wished she'd sailed back to the shelter of the inlet. The boat wasn't big: a wooden sailing yacht that would be tossed dangerously in a strong storm. She looked up at the two masts with a grim expression, then glared at the clouds beyond them. "Be kind, Calypso. I beg you, do not make our situation more dire."


	27. Move it or Lose it

Annamaria jumped when the door opened. Sands wore his sunglasses, the bandages now being small enough to be completely obscured by the dark lenses. Sea spray blew into her face and she blinked as she watched him. He was looking around in an odd fashion, then she realized he wasn't looking, but listening. One hand still gripped the door handle and he swayed with the rocking of the deck. After a second he was 'staring' right at her. How did he do that?

"I don't think you want to be up here just now," she said.

"Why? It's such lovely weather." The rain began to patter as if on cue, but it only took a moment to go from patter to torrents. "Jesus," Sands cursed and he took a step back into the shelter of the doorway when the icy droplets hit.

The boat lurched down into a valley then rose up on a swell. "Damn," Annamaria said as she grabbled onto the mast she stood beside. With one hand she pulled on a pair of goggles she had up on her forehead. Things were going south quick. She surged to the doorless shelter of the forward cabin to observe a few instruments, leaving Sands braced in the doorframe.

As he stood there feeling the waves lift and fall the boat he began to slowly relax. Ancient muscle memory started to command his legs. There was a familiarity in this movement. The dizziness faded from his temples. He released the wooden doorframe from his grasp and found himself rocking with the boat.

"Well how do you like those apples," he said to himself.

He caught himself before stumbling as a shock shook the boards underfoot.

.

"Bloody new technology. All useless bullshit!" Annamaria cursed as a steam of rainwater poured over the lip of the open cabin onto her back. She jumped at the freezing liquid as it ran down her spine. "Better to strike the soundings yourself any damn day!"

She'd had the boat for a year but never in a storm and having spent most of her last hundred years in remote forest areas with little more than unsophisticated weaponry and ham radios didn't make one very computer savvy.

She wiped the glass windshield in front of her as it started to fog up due to her body heat versus the dropping temperature outside and turned on the old lantern hanging from the ceiling. It looked like the anchor was holding its own at the bow, but it was going to be a bumpy ride.

She again cursed the electronic instruments on the dash. Something was wrong. All the computer gibberish had her head spinning. She knew she should have stayed old school. "Of all the times to experiment with technology…" she grumbled. The water was too shallow here. The land shelf extended farther than she'd thought and apparently she'd read something on the screens incorrectly, and it had landed them just on the edge of the shelf with the waves breaking only meters away. The only problems with this was that it meant they could bottom out if a wave pulled water back out to sea as it built, and/or pulled the boat as well. The anchor kept the bow facing into the wind and therefore the waves, but if the waves grew too high they could be pulled under and tumbled like a surfer wiping out.

She watched the water crash on the bow in front of her between sheets of rain. It wasn't going to be a short gale. They had to move.

"Fuck. Fuck!" she yelled in frustrations. If only Jack were here.

A big wave crashed down right at the bow and rippled over the deck as a crash of lightening struck and thunder boomed. The glass rattled.

"Puta Madre!"

She had to move the boat. That's all there was to it. Move it or lose it.

Suddenly Sands was beside her.

"What's going on, Girly?"

Under normal circumstances this would have been annoying, but the urgency of the situation sent it right over her head and off her back without notice.

"I've got to move the boat. I have to move the boat and it's going to be hell."

"Why?"

She explained the situation.

"You've had it for a year and you can't read the damned screens. Jesus."

She could feel herself turning red. "Like you'll be a help you son-of-a-bitch!"

His face actually twitched into a smile. "Actually…. Do you have another anchor?"


	28. A Jack Classic

Chapter 28: A Jack Classic

"What?"

"I have an idea."

"_What_? What do you know about _sailing_?"

"Nothing really. But problems solving is problem solving. Now, do you have another anchor or not?"

Annamaria turned around. "Uh, yeah, I think so. Down below in the supply closet. On the floor, obviously."

Sands started off back to the door. "It's locked!" Annamaria yelled through the rainfall. A roll of thunder deafened them a moment, but she saw him turn and gesture for keys. She reached into her pocket, but paused.

"Comon, you made this sound urgent!" Sands yelled as the lightning painted his face white and made his sunglasses flash.

"Shit." She pulled the keys from her pocket and tossed them at him before she remembered why he wore sunglasses in a thunderstorm. But he caught them, much to her surprise. He disappeared down the stairs. "I can't believe I just gave him those…" She watched another wave crash over the bow.

.

Sands crossed the room. The supply closet was on the opposite wall than the stairs. They were now rocking enough that even his newfound sea legs couldn't keep him on a straight line. The key scratched at the doorknob like a drunk's before it went in. The door swung out. "That's right, motherfucker."

He reached out, found it was a rather large closet, and stepped forward. His foot sank into a pile of net. Careful not to tangle his ankles, he took another step or two, then stubbed his toe on something. Just then a large wave hit and he felt himself losing balance. A drop tipped things too much and his shoulder hit a shelf. He grabbled it, getting a handful of the mesh that kept things on the shelf in such weather. Something slid up against his knuckles.

That metal was familiar.

A shock of realization. He grabbed the mesh with both hands and turned to face the shelf. Reaching over the guard, he slid his hand around his company sidearm. Without a pause he tucked the weapon in the back of his waistband and turned back around to see what he'd stubbed his toe on. He crouched down and felt it. The anchor.

"Voila." He tried to pick it up and felt the muscles in his damaged legs and shoulder burn, then flare with pain. "Son-of-a-bitch…." He altered his grip, determined to overcome his injuries. The awkward piece of metal weighed about fifty pounds, a weight he could have moved easily if it weren't for his wounds, a fact which only infuriated him further. He dragged it out of the closet, but anchors are made to embed if dragged and he had to lift it to get to the stairs. His limbs revolted. He'd been extremely lucky that none of the bullets had hit bone, but his muscles felt as if they were tearing themselves apart under his skin. He wanted more than anything to drop it when he reached the stairs, but new he may very well never be able to lift it again. At least he had the railing. Leaning heavily, he mounted the stairs. At the top his hands could take no more and he dropped the anchor, immediately feeling a lightness wash over him before the pain of the damage he'd just done himself caught up.

The sheets of freezing rain poured down, and he was thankful for the numbness it brought with it.

Annamaria was too distracted by the peril of the boat to notice how pale he was when she came from the front cabin with a coil of nylon cord. She attached this to the chain that hung from the top of the anchor.

"Now," she said "What's your plan?" she had to practically yell to be heard over the water as it crashed all around them. The horizon was not unlike a sheet in tremendous wind, rolling and flapping, and the sky above lit up like bombs were exploding behind the clouds.

"How much line do you have on the front anchor?" he yelled to her, both of them holding onto the anchor and sliding with the rocking deck.

"It's at a hundred, there's about 200 feet left."

Sands nodded. "Okay. Get the other anchor set up at the back. The next time-"

Annamaria shook her head fiercely. "No, you can't anchor at the stern! We'll be swamped! We'll be held down on both sides-"

"Listen to me, damnit! The next wave we get, we loosen the front end, let the wave carry us back, and anchor the 'stern' where the wave drops us before the undertow pulls us back here. We can put out some of the sail to catch the wind and combat the undertow, that way we'll buy some time for anchoring."

She stared at him, her mouth open. "Are- are you _insane_!"

"Quite probably!"

Water bubbled over their shoes as they faced each other. The logistics of this were bat-shit crazy and she didn't like the idea of doing it with only two people, only one of which could actually _see_ that the hell was going on. But what other choice did they have? And the plan was almost crazy enough to be a Jack Classic. "This will never work…." She mumbled to herself.

He flashed his Cheshire grin, and for an instant she thought she was looking at Jack. "Sure it will. Stay positive, Girly."

.

It took them long minutes to get everything set up, meanwhile the waves were getting higher and the wind stronger. It would be the first release that would be the most dangerous because it would be the biggest wave. Annamaria modified Sands' plan, knowing boats better. She said they shouldn't let the wave carry them back, but instead raise the front anchor, lower the back one and let themselves be turned, then lower the front and raise the back. By always having the anchor nearest the shore down, the wind and waves would keep turning them again and again in the direction of the shore. They would just have to watch the stern and make sure they kept it into the wind for as short a time as possible to avoid flooding. They stood in the center of the boat as Annamaria explained how to lower the back anchor. "You can't just drop it in. That's why the original plan wouldn't have worked, there wouldn't be enough time to lower the anchor before the next wave's undertow would start pulling us out again."

The sail was partially out, filling with the wind, straining the nylon anchor rope.

"We never want both anchors to be up at the same time, so make sure you tell me when the back one is down so I know I can raise the front."

She handed him a pair of leather gloves to protect his hands against the nylon. He checked to make sure he knew which hand was which before pulling them on this time. He wasn't the type to make the same mistake twice, except when it came to women. Never trust anyone, especially women. But that's always how it happened wasn't it, his downfalls? Women always seemed to get him killed. He had an eerie, strange feeling then, as if he weren't quite himself.

He made sure his gun was still tucked in the back of his waistband.


	29. Strength of the Sea

Chapter 29: Strength of the Sea

The wind and water was almost all Sands could hear. The rocking of the boat combined with his newly damaged wounds did not help his concentration. He followed the cold rail back to the stern and the anchor rope. Annamaria had synchronized their watches and told him that she'd set his to go off every five minutes. He would have ten minutes to lower the back anchor before she would start lifting the front end. There was no guarantee it would hold, and they would probably shift quite a bit before the anchor bit into the sea floor. They could only hope they'd move in the right direction.

.

At the bow, Annamaria cowered slightly at the size of the coming waves. No matter how old she got she always knew she could leave it to the sea to remind her she was still only a human to the raging forces of nature. It was bigger. It was older. It was stronger. She put her shoulder to the wind and checked her watch.

.

His arm was killing him, but Sands felt the anchor hit bottom. Water had penetrated every layer of clothes and the bandages on his face were soaked through, soggy on his cheeks, salt water stinging the edges of his eye sockets. Somehow, he was able to ignore it.

His wristwatch began to beep for the second time. Sands lowered a few more feet of nylon and tied it off.

.

Annamaria wished she could yell to Sands over the roar of the wind, but it proved too loud to even hear her own voice as she grumbled to herself. She prayed he had the anchor down as she began to lift hers. A wave crashed in front of her, pushing her feet back, nearly out from under her. The stress of the wind and waves on the nylon had it stretched tight, making it difficult to pull from its lodgings. She waited until the undercurrent pulled them back toward the open sea. The line went slack. With all her might, she lifted. It began to give, then it started to come in easy.

The moment of fear, and ultimately, truth.

.

Sands leaned against the metal rail - the only thing keeping him from falling into the sea - whose valleys of water between waves seemed to gape like open mouths. Foam covered the surface, flying into the air and adding to the salt taste in his mouth. Overhead the thunder kept clashing, though he couldn't see the lightning. What the hell was he doing here? And why did it feel somehow…familiar?

The world started to spin. No, the boat started to move. It was swinging about! But, it was headed the wrong way.

"What the hell…?" He could feel the drift like he was in a plane that was banking to the left. Then, the movement sped up. Instinct told him to grab the rail, and he obeyed. He felt his stomach sinking as the boat went into a valley. It felt like an elevator stopping at after a long decent. He thought he heard someone yelling to him, but then a sound like a giant storm drain in a downpour, only far louder. He sucked in air. Crouching with his head down, his hands still clutching the rail; he bowed to the sea.


	30. Eyes in the Water

Chapter 30: Eyes in the Water

The water tore the sunglasses from Sands' face, and neither were the soaked bandages a match for the force of the wave.

A moment and he was completely submerged. Salt water filled his barely healed eye sockets and he had to hold back a scream that would rip away what precious air he held in his lungs. Panic filled him for the first time since he woke up on the boat. Panic was something he never used to experience on such a frequent basis. He could do nothing but blindly grip the metal rail and hope the boat would break the surface again.

The raging water filled his ears. Pressures battered him from every direction. The boat was still moving and after trying to calm down, he realized that it was now headed in the right direction.

Suddenly, the noise around him seemed to become muted. Despite the water being rather warm, he felt a chill. Then, he heard something. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere far off, echoing out to him. A voice.

"_Wit'y Jack…_"

A woman's voice, with what sounded like a Haitian accent. No. It _didn't_ sound like _anything_ because it wasn't actually _there_.

_Just what I need, more voices_, he thought. He looked around like a dunce in his black world.

"_You've com 'ome."_

The boat emerged and he felt the water recede from him like a silk sheet being drawn away. Noise returned to full volume as cold rain washed away the warmth of the sea water. Water on water against wood hull. Thunder.

Boots. She was running toward him.

"Shit, I thought you were gone!" he heard her say. "Are you alright?"

Sands stood up on trembling legs. "Just peachy."

"You should go to the bow. It's safer."

He turned his face toward her. She took a step back; he looked like he might bare his teeth. Those holes seemed to leer at her.

"Fine where I'm at. Don't like 'safe'. It makes me nervous." A smirk curled up the right side of his pale face and she was surprised a fang didn't slip into view.

"…Okay." Miffed, she turned to leave. "Start lifting in another ten minutes. Here comes another wave." Running boots.

His grin disappeared. "Fuck." Latching again to the rail he prepared to go back under. His boots squished as he knelt down and pressed his stinging face into his bicep to prevent the wave's force from reopening his wounds.

The pummeling wave felt like being tackled, and just like that he was under again. I lasted only a few second, but he could have sworn it was minutes.

"_Jack…"_ the voice called in a ghostly but seductive tone. He lifted his head. Blackness of course, which probably would have been what he'd see even if he had eyes.

Surface.

He was still ankle deep in water. She had better get that anchor down faster than in ten minutes. Another wave. He hadn't even bothered standing up.

"_Lift the anchor, Jack_."

_Yeah, right,_ he thought. _I might be hearing voices, but I ain't _that_ crazy._

Surface.

The next time he went under the voice sounded louder, closer. It made his stomach quiver inside him. This felt so _real_. He could no longer decide if he if it was madness or he was actually hearing it.

Then, there in the blackness, far out in the black water, a light! A glowing figure with glowing golden eyes!

Stupidly, he extended a hand toward it, but he couldn't see his own arm before him! A dream in waking? Had he drowned?

Then the water receded again, this time only to his knees. He felt it pushing and pulling him.

Despite being in the air, he couldn't breathe right away. Only his watch beeping brought him back. Apparently, he was still alive. He'd heard of people who, when they lost an eye, would see things that weren't really there as their brain tried to compensate for the missing organ. Something told him, something stronger than reason told him, that this was not the case. What he'd seen might not have been tangible, but it was REAL.

The persistent beeping pulled him farther from the surreal. He'd already turned it off once, hadn't he?

Finally realizing what the sound meant, he grabbed the anchor rope and began to pull. The next wave that pulled out to sea unhooked the anchor. Sands leaned on the rail for support, bracing against the pain in his body as much as a waves' force. By the time the anchor was raised he knew that if he'd had eyes they would be leaking involuntarily from the sharp stabbing pain in his arm and legs that reverberated into his chest. His breathing alternated between deep shudders and quick, sharp gasps. He forced his cold hand to wrap around the metal as the rain continued to pound down like drops of lead.

The boat started to turn. The water level lowered, releasing his knees. But the lowering water level was like a parent lowering a child to the ground, and so Sands sank onto the deck.

A wave hit the side of the boat, pushing it farther toward land as Sands tried to ignore the pain that now was growing in his temples as well. What was it he'd seen down there in the water? Those eyes: as terrifying and as beautiful as the ocean itself! Admirably, women had entrance him before, but this was different. He knew this face. He feared this face as much as he longed to see it. But from where? Images began to come to him: Faces, landscapes of water, islands.

"That's it. That's it. I'm going crazy. Then I'm going to die. Freaking out… at the wrong time." His voice boardered on frantic.

But he couldn't stop remembering things that hadn't happened to him.

"Jack!" He turned his face toward the name. This was real, this was Lucia's voice. Annamaria. Her name was Annamaria. How did he know that? He turned his face down, covering it with his hands. His breathing was almost hyperventilating.

She was crouching beside him again.

"I believe…. I don't know." He could still feel the gun in the back of his waist band, it's cold metal on his back. It probably wouldn't fire now after being soaked again and again. But for some reason, it didn't matter. Not here. Not anymore.

"I think we're okay where we are at now!" she yelled over the rain. "As long as the bow stays forward, we should be-"

He lifted his face.

Annamaria jumped. The pouring ran washed red in tendrils over his cheeks and from his palms. "Madre de Jesús!"

Wet hair plastered to his head, he looked up with an expression of distress and confusion. "The woman in the water. The light. Did you see it?" She could barely hear him over the storm. What the hell was he talking about?

"You need to come below!" she called to him. She slid an arm around him, lifting him to his feet. Was she really doing this again? She didn't know if his lack of resistance was a good or bad thing. Her arm hit something hard in the small of his back.

A gun.

As discreetly as possible, she pulled it and flung it into the ocean. It sank down fast, burying itself in the muddy sands.


	31. Fevered Delusions or Past lives?

Chapter 31:

Sands would be delirious most of the night. Annamaria managed to subdue him with most of what remained of the pain killers and took a look at his injuries while he ranted at the ceiling and the very air around him in slurred sounds that barely discernable as words. While bandaging him up she noted that the hour of nature's wrath had undone almost a week's worth of healing.

Trial by water. Was this Calypso's punishment?

"Who was that? Who was it! Tell me you fucking…."

She stared down at him, unsure whether to be sympathetic or disgusted.

"How could you let it get so bad, Jack?"

Suddenly his head swiveled to face her in a quick movement as if he were possessed. "You! You seem to know too Goddamned much, tell me who she was!"

Even slowed by morphine he hadn't let her touch his face, and those dark inhuman pits glared up at her. "Tell me you insufferable slut!"

The back of her hand connected with his face before she even knew what she was doing. He yelled in pain, took a few ragged gulps of air, and was dead to the world for the next few hours.

When he finally woke up his face was clean and a bandage was wrapped securely around his head again. What the hell had happened?

Parts of him burned, parts ached, and parts stung, but nothing felt comfortable. He remembered waves, severe pain, thunder, and… a face? Had he dreamt? No, the pain was too real, and too real still. He tried to lift his head, but it was as if his body was one pole of a magnet and the cot the other. His body simply didn't have the energy.

.

Annamaria sat at the stern admiring the glassy afternoon water of the bay she'd glided the boat into after the storm settled. The contrast to the night before felt almost like a miracle.

He'd almost been Jack, she could see it in his movements and even in his voice. And then it was gone. She'd backhanded him so hard the knuckle of her middle finger still stung where it had collided with his cheekbone. Sands deserved it, of course, but she'd never had to hit Jack while he was injured. He was far to tactful to incite rage when in a vulnerable position. And he never would have called her a slut, even if he were sweating rum.

What had he been going on about? _Who is who_? Was it just some delusion carried over from when he could see?

His temperature hiked in the first hour his was passed out. She worried about infection, but she figured with his sunglasses now gone overboard he'd be less eager to remove the bandages. She'd always hated those damned things anyway, they made it too easy for him to hide. They were a tool of the person she wanted to be rid of. Ever since Jone's Locker Jack had been move of a nutter, but over the centuries his sanity had returned, if you could call it that. She just hoped she just wouldn't have to wait that long again.

.

Feaver kept him ff his feet for another five days, which was a good thing for his injuries. But it took almost that long for the pain killers to arrive, dropped onto the deck by a sea plane as it passed overhead (living forever gets one odd but useful connections).

He slept a lot, and talked to himself in muttering whispers while awake. This behavior was more disturbing than insults flung at high volume.

.

The pain in his arm distracted him as he searched the groove between the mat and the wall for the last pack of cigarettes he'd stashed there. He pulled it from its hiding place.

One left.

He was lucky lighting these things was such a mechanical habit to him. He just wished he could tell if the lighter still had fuel.

Not yet, apparently.

As he pulled the poison into his lungs he suddenly wished he could watch the grey-blue tendrils as they danced toward the ceiling. What a strange thought. Odd what blindness could do to a man, he'd never felt sentimental before.

An eerie feeling came over him as he expelled his pollution into the air. He realized he couldn't readily supply when he'd smoked a cigarette. He let the rest of the smoke leak out of his nose as he lay still a full minute while trying to remember.

He knew he'd smoked at the Farm. It was one of their only complaints about him during training, but after they realized it wasn't effecting his mile time they stopped bitching. He'd even smoked on the last lap, just to prove a point. Seven minutes on the mark.

With a feeling similar to déjà vu he recalled a scene in his mind's eye.

Water. Always water. He was on the ground but something helped to prop him up a bit. His legs stretched out before him on wooden planks. He was on a dock. It was night. The sky held wisps of grey clouds, their edges silver in the moonlight. It was beautiful, but a pain in his shoulder distracted him from it. It was like the pain he felt now, only sharper, fresher. He remembered smelling the tang of is own blood mingling with the salty sea air. A man in a light suit and panama hat stood over him.

"Jesus, Johnny," he said in a distinctly Chicagan accent, which was odd, because it was far to hot and muggy for Chicago. He crouched down, worry on his face.

His own hand went up and snatched the lit cigarette from the man's amazed mouth.

"Got anything to drink?" he heard himself ask. The man started to chuckle in relief.

The scene/memory evaporated. It felt like an old movie, and left him with a sense of quiet paranoia.

Past lives? He'd never believed in such spiritual bullshit. Something was up, and he wanted to find out what.


	32. Broken

Chapter 32: Broken

Annamaria was observing. Sands wasn't talking to her much, but he would make movements whenever she came in the room as if to communicate that he was perfectly capable of knowing where she was. She was sure he wanted it to come off as a warning.

She'd turned the bow north some days ago, traveling up the Mexican coast, following a course she'd mapped out on the chart a day after the storm.

Charting courses always made her think of Jack in the good old days.

She was moving her boat to what she called a good 'jump point'. Hers is a small craft and the safest way to travel is to hop from one landmass to the next across the smallest stretches of water possible, therefore avoiding lengthy stints on the open sea. She sailed mostly at night and slept anchored from noon to about 7 or 8 pm. The repetition of steering, furling and unfurling sails, and taking soundings when necessary was therapeutic. Sailing she can deal with. Somehow it never gets old. However, when the waters were pleasant and deep, the course clear and wind constant, she would have no job to do but watch the horizon and her mind wandered to the past. And her eyes wandered to the door leading below deck.

How long would she have to restrain him? How long _could_ she? Injury had done most of the work for her so far, but he was, deep down, Jack after all, and therefore one-step ahead.

Using Jack's keen talent for escape and manipulation, there seemed no limit to his chances for freedom. He was the king of misdirection. Was this the way he would be now, forever? Even if she got Jack back on top, there would always be a hint of Sands inside. He couldn't take back what he did as that person, just as she couldn't take back the things she'd done in war. They'd both somewhat 'evolved' since the Fountain, but never so drastically. Maybe what Jack had said back at Del Rio was right, maybe this is what they would have to become to survive in the future. Drown their humanity and become snakes.

She looked up at the stars where they glowed behind a stripe of jet exhaust. She remembered the first time she'd seen a plane cross the sky above her head. It had been amazing. It had made her heart race with possibilities and wonder at the genius of mankind. Since then, there had been more and more lines scoring the sky with white hatch marks. They became commonplace. Man wanted more. And in one century the world changed more drastically than she'd ever imagined. She would retreat to the jungles for a year and return to the modern city to find something new she never thought possible, and it was only getting faster. We can pull information from the very either, and send it back out in video, word, image and sound. The collective foot of modern mankind is heavy on the accelerator. With such speed, a crash would eventually be inevitable. She wondered if Jack and herself would live long enough bear witness.

….

Down below Sands very tentatively pulled on and buttoned a pair of loose black jeans and slid an undershirt over his head.

When the door to the stairs opened, Annamaria turned her head but then froze, unwilling to betray her position to the blind man. Sands movements were stiff but he did not stumble on the gently rocking deck. He headed toward the edge and her muscles coiled, ready to dive if he went over. He merely gripped the rail and lowered himself onto a staple wrapped in a rope. She heard him sigh, a kind of disguised grunt of pain as his legs bent.

What a beating this man had taken! She almost felt sorry for him, but instead felt slightly angry with him for what he'd done to Jack's body. She saw Jack in his mannerisms now, popping up in a hand movement or even a fleeting smile, but over it all lay Sands.

He looked nervous now, as he sat by the water, his face dark and contemplative. His hands fidgeted on his knees. For once, he looked defenseless, as vulnerable as any other man would be in his position. His messy hair carelessly pulled back, half of it falling free already, the white bandages almost glowing in the darkness. He didn't look like the psychopath CIA agent now, but he didn't look like Jack either.

He slowly lifted his head, tilting it one way, then the other. Who was this man?

"Who was the man on the dock?" he suddenly asked the night air. Was he talking to her? She remained silent.

"I know him. Why do I know him?" he continued before a long pause. Then: "How can I accept that? No, I can't. What's your point?" Pause. "You're a voice. I've been through hell. How do I know…." "…Yes, but that doesn't mean anything." "She was a phantom, it happens…." His face was now painted with frustration. "I can't fucking see, how is this proof? Am I dead? Is this my own fucking private hell!" Annamaria jumped at his sudden volume. His figure hunched, his hands digging into his hair. "Jesus, I can't even be sure of my own name."

His breathing slowed a little. He released his hair and tilted his head back as if to stare up at the stars. "Why can't I remember…that…but things like – it's impossible…." He slowly doubled back over, his hands lightly resting on his knees, which couldn't feel very good even now. "Goddamnit!" he burst, hands balling into fists. "Goddamnit! Somebody fucking tell me what the hell is wrong with me! Who am I? Who am I!" This last part came out with a desperate laugh that seamed to degenerate into sob-like ragged breaths. Something in it made Annamaria's heart stir. The sounds of a broken man. She'd heard it so many times before, but not from him. A bone broken can be healed stronger if set straight.

She stood up and it was a testament to how lost he was in his head that he didn't acknowledge her movement toward him. She knelt down in front of his sitting form and he finally lifted his head.

"You once knew who I am," she said. "I will tell you about me, and then, I will tell you about you, and you _will_ remember."

She saw his eyebrows draw together under the bandages. "Annamaria…," He whispered. He'd remembered the name again last night. But she'd never told him, had she?

His voice saying her name nearly had her eyes misting over. "Yes," she answered. Unable to hold back, she gently but solidly embraced him. He did not respond, but she didn't need him to, not yet.


	33. Annamaria's Story

Chapter 33: Annamaria's Story

Sands was hovering. He felt like an amnesia patient. He could recite names from his childhood and he could describe faces, but there were no voices. He remembered the house he grew up in like it was a photograph with no inner rooms. He knew more was going on in his head than he was aware.

Annamaria sat him down in a chair in the single narrow room below deck. On the small round table between them he heard her place two glasses and one bottle. A cork popped from glass lips, a splashing sound released the expected smell of spiced rum.

She sighed.

"Where to start?"

"The beginning would be logical," he told her, trying to sound normal, though his head was filled with places he'd never been.

"Right. The beginning. The beginning for me was somewhere in the early 18th century. I'm not sure the day exactly, but I'd guess some time in 1710. My father I know was the offspring of a Spaniard and an African slave on his hacienda. He managed to escape during a short-lived slave revolt and fled with the others who were lucky enough to survive to join with the surviving native Carib tribe in the more mountainous areas of the island that the Europeans tended to avoid. I was born there. My mother was a native. I can't remember much of my time among the Carib because so much of it was in flux. There was seldom lasting peace, people died of strange illnesses and raids against the Spanish and from the Spanish kept us moving. What I do remember are the things my mother taught me about the gods and the language. Now I only remember prayers, so much of the rest is lost on me."

It seemed listening helped Sands' mind. It gave him something else to focus on, other than himself.

"When I was somewhere around 14 the Spaniards raided us and dragged me off back to the town where my father had escaped. Through certain features I was recognized by my Spanish grandfather as his grandchild." He could hear a flare of hate in her voice at this. "I let them think they had me tamed for two years before I saw my chance for escape."

Suddenly, the image of a Spanish colony formed in Sands' imagination. It was in such detail, like other things he knew but didn't know.

"A ship docked that had vague allegiances and I was quick to hack off my hair, bind my breasts and pad my stomach. Six months as a cabin boy and I was in Tortuga. I managed to keep my disguise up for ten years, switching from ships before anyone could discover my secret."

Sands hadn't moved much since she'd started and she wondered if she was being believed. If not, the next part would surely bring an objection.

"Then, at the twilight of a day and the dawn of a storm, my ambitious captain launched an attack on a galleon. His lust for gold, I'm afraid, was outgunned by the galleon's fifty cannons. We were obliterated." She paused, her mind filled with a red sea, pink froth bubbling with the reek of fish and the smell of iron from the blood. "I clung to a fallen mast, and at what was probably about 2 in the morning, the storm passed and I saw a strip of black on the dark blue horizon. I prayed to every one of the gods of my mother that I would be delivered to it." She smiled and gave a short, self deprecating laugh. "But those were not the only gods that exist. I'd been at it a while when I felt some large creature brush by my leg. Naturally I was terrified, but a moment later a shinny, smooth head broke the surface beside me. A dolphin as dark as a starless sky stared at me with these eerie golden eyes. As unnatural as it was, I grabbed onto this strange animal like in a trance. In mere minutes I could feel the sandy bottom under my feet as it bore me to the shore of what is now the state of Florida, but was then little more than everglades and jungle.

The dolphin didn't stay, but a few minutes after it disappeared, as I lay exhausted on the beach, I saw a woman walking along the surf. She had the same golden eyes, though they faded as she came closer."

This seemed to get Sands attention, for he leaned forward on the table with a look of intense interest, but he did not interrupt her.

"As tired as I was I didn't want to appear weak in front of such a stranger, so I got to my feet. Her long dark hair flowed oddly from her dark skin, and her very presence had my heart racing the way it did when I saw a huge wave hurdling toward my ship. I knew I stood before something… more than human. The goddess, Calypso. I bowed my head like a submissive wolf, but not before giving her a hard look in the eyes, which only made her smile." She paused. "Now that I think of it, it's a grin I've seen often on your face." He heard her take another drink.

"She called me by a name I didn't know, but felt as if it were mine. Then she explained that she'd been watching me and she knew my dreams and desires. 'I will make you a master of Time, and you will sail the seas forever.' she told me. I was by no means stupid, but I was young, and an eternity of the freedom of the sea sounded like a beautiful idea. In return all she asked was only a century of my service. What was a hundred years to forever? I probably agreed faster than I should have. I gave her my servitude, and she gave me a giant shell filled with a water that shone pearlecent in the moonlight. It was the coolest, purest water I had ever tasted and nothing since has compared to it…. She told me that it came from a fountain, a small spring lost deep inside the swampy peninsula that many have sought and suffered to find. I knew the only fountain she could be referring to could be the fabled Fountain of Youth…. From that day on I didn't age. When I was 30, I was 26. At 40? 26. 30 years after I was still 26, but I knew far more than any 26-year-old. I knew more places and more people… one of them was you: Captain Jack Sparrow of the Black Pearl. I'd heard about you for years before I met you.

"Later I figured out that Calypso had known when she bought my servitude that something would happen to her. Not long afterward she was captured, imprisoned in human form. She also predicted that I would be in close enough to the matter to assist in her release. She'd seen my heart; I had no ambition for power, for fame. I wanted freedom, no responsibility but to myself. In other words, I had no reason to betray her. So, when she discovered Jack had to be in Port Royal at a certain time, I let him steel my boat. Weeks later, when he was to be hanged in the same city, I made sure the Black Pearl was there to pull him out of the water and dry him off. The point is that Calypso knew he would be key in the return of her freedom, just as his father had been in her capture. I would be the only person who could fade into the background and pull a few strings when they needed to be pulled. People have a tendency to ignore me when I want then to.

"During this struggle Jack, you, became obsessed with the idea of immortality and taking the place of Davy Jones. When you sacrificed this dream to save Turner's son, you didn't give it up…. But that's another story."

Images, places, faces. They were starting to make sense. One event after another, the puzzle was assembling.

"I've been a pirate, a revolutionary, a smuggler, a freedom fighter, an assassin. I've done awful things and seen beauty in places I never knew existed. I've lived 300 years, but as much as I try to be more, I still feel little more than human sometimes and it's probably the only thing keeping me sane… well, that and knowing Jack Sparrow is out there, somewhere, chasing horizons."


	34. Preparing to Hoist the Colors

Disclaimer: I do not have rights to "Hoist the Colors", Jack Sparrow, Annamaria, or Sands

Ch 34: Preparing to Hoist the Colors

For a day Sands, Jack, whoever he was now, wandered the small ship without acknowledging Annamaria at all. It was like he was in a trance. He didn't even notice when she pulled his bags from under the bunk to raffle through them.

She poured the black duffle bag she'd snagged form his Culican apartment out onto the wooden planks and knelt down in front of them like it was some sort of alter that would provide answers. She took inventory:

CDs: James Bond soundtrack. She laughed. Two Dick Dale mixes, Sergio Leone, Nick Cave with Johnny Cash, classic Rolling Stones, Tome Waits, The Stooges…and one unlabeled. She turned it over and saw the lines of information, so it wasn't blank. Out of curiosity, she pocketed it for later.

All that was left was clothes and an empty holster.

She slid the black physician style bag toward her. This is where she'd pulled the guns, lost to the sea now, save for the old Webley, securely hidden under her jacket. All she'd found other than weaponry the fist time was a creepy articulated fake arm and a piece of silverware. She took these out and stared at the emptiness. There had to be something else. Taking out her pocketknife, she began to feel around the lining inside the bag. Remembering his tendency from his backpack from over a century before, she tapped the bottom. Did that sound slightly hollow? She compared the bag's height and depth, then started to carefully cut at the lining around the bottom. Making a slit, she slipped her fingers in and felt around. Her nails caught the edge of something!

The excitement of discovery lifted her heart.

Tearing the lining farther she wedged her nails under the groove, but it wouldn't open. Using her pocketknife as leverage, she pried the rusted lid off. She wondered if Sands even knew about this. With a tug she tore the lining out the rest of the way to reveal a pouch and the compass box. She took the bag over to the small table and into better lighting, where she picked up the compass. She just held it in her hands without opening it to gaze at its familiar face. The face that had gotten them into so much trouble over the years. Determined not to even take a glimpse, she pocketed and lifted the pouch.

She shook it before opening and heard metallic jingling. She knew what they were before she untied the knot and dumped them onto the table like reading runes. They spun and danced on the tabletop. The four worn rings came to settle in the yellow circle of light: the gold and onyx flower from his little adventure with that wealthy Spanish widow, the green dragon from China, the green stone with silver skulls and the large red stone set in gold. In the past he'd always worn one or two, if not all. Why did he wear none now?

She slipped them on, all too big, and felt the smooth worn metal caressing her fingers. Hearing footsteps overhead, she looked up at the ceiling and put the oversized rings in her jean pocket.

Remembering the unlabeled disc, she repacked the bags and shoved them under the bed and went to find her headphones.

…

She climbed the stairs with caution, peeking out the door at the top to make sure her exit wouldn't disturb him.

Nothing.

Quietly closing the door behind her, she glanced around to find him sitting near the bow, his face turned into the wind, and she couldn't help but wonder: if he had eyes, would he be stretched out on the bowsprit like a lounging cat?

He didn't even turn his head as she walked into the cabin and sat down in the brown leather swivel chair. Plugging in her headphones, she inserted the CD.

First, there was a crackling, like she was listening to vinyl. Then… a voice.

"You'll have to pardon the … amateur vocals." A chuckle.

The sound quality was not the best, but it was him! Jack's voice, with an American accent, but the same inflection and tone. She found herself holding her breath.

"So forgive me, you can blame it on Maria. Her fault, she wanted to hear it."

Was he talking about her?

Another voice, she supposed a fellow musician. "Maria? A girl's involved?"

"Annamaria. There's always a girl, mate. It's the blessing and curse. They'll save you and kill you." Both men laughed, Jack a little quieter.

"So let's get this down, shall we?" A short silence followed.

Then, an acoustic guitar began. At first; only one string at a time, then he really started and the other man, apparently a fiddler, joined in.

The effect was beautiful. It took her shaken mind a moment to realize they were playing Spanish Ladies. And, after a long introduction, a voice.

Rough, but somehow soothing, with a subdued low British accent.

"Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish Ladies…. Farewell and adieu fair ladies of Spain. For we've received orders to sail for ol' England… but we hope in a short time to see you again…."

Annamaria looked through the windshield at Jack's back.

………….Shanandoah…………..

………………………………..A Dying Sailor to his Shipmates……………….

Then, a longer pause. Tears were in her eyes, but she barely noticed.

"Do you remember that one I taught you?" She heard him ask the fiddler in a quiet voice.

"If you start it…"

Jack began to hum a tune: slow, low, and foreboding. Like an eerie lullaby. The violin picked it up and he joined in with the guitar. As Jack began to sing, Annamaria could not stop herself from whispering along….

"The king and his men stole the queen from her bed

and bound her in her Bones.

The seas be ours

and by the powers

whe-re we will we'll roam.

Yo, ho, all hands,

hoist the colors high.

Heave ho, thieves and beggars,

Ne-ver shall we die.

Yo, ho, haul together,

hoist the colors high.

Heave ho, thieves and beggars,

ne-ver shall we die.

Some men have died and some are alive

and others sail on the sea

– with the keys to the cage...

and the Devil to pay

we lay to Fiddler's Green!

The bell has been raised from it's watery grave...

Do you hear its sepulchral tone?

We are a call to all,

pay head the squall

and turn your sail toward home!

Yo, ho, haul together

hoist the colors high.

Heave ho, thieves and beggars,

Ne-ver say we die."

As she finished, she watched Jack stand up, step forward, and with one smooth movement dive over the edge of the ship.


	35. Deep Blue Sea

Ch. 35: Deep Blue Sea, Baby, Deep Blue Sea

Annamaria was on her feet so fast that the earphones tore both from her ears and from where they were plugged. The CD began to repeat over the stereo system. She nearly fell over as she pressed a button on the dash to drop the anchor, but didn't have time to reel in any sail. Hopefully, the boat would still be there when they got back. In a second her shoes were off and her jacket was discarded on the deck. She leapt into the water where he'd disappeared.

Opening her eyes to the stinging water, she frantically searched the darkness. Luckily, it was dawn and light was beginning to filter through the inky water to turn everything blue. A shadow. Breeching, she took one last deep breath and swam as quickly as she could toward him. He was twenty feet away, barely moving, head down, one arm out as if reaching for something in the still dark water. It took a few seconds to get to him. His ankle was just within reach when he began to move, to almost glide forward. With a powerful kick, she latched onto the cuff of his pants. She could feel herself being pulled through the water swiftly, the pressure on her face, her grip suffering. Grabbing on now with both hands, she slowly pulled herself forward as they went sliding into deeper water with what seemed no effort from either of them.

Above, the sun broke the skyline.

A brilliant light flooded the ocean, glittering through the Gulf waters like some sort of celestial luminescence. As Annamaria latched on to Jack's waistband, she turned her face forward and opened her eyes to spite the pressure of the water in order to see what was pulling them forward.

"A black dolphin, as dark as the starless night sky…."

Suddenly, the water pressure began to close in on their unprotected, unaccustomed, human bodies. The pain began in her ears and eyes, and only built and built. Her lungs were burning. If something didn't happen s-

A popping sound. Then, air.

Gasping and even spitting up some salt water, she found herself holding her aching skull and moaning on the ground. Jack lay right beside her, breathing unevenly and not moving. As soon as the flashes of color stopped blinking across her vision in their devilish procession, she sat up from her stomach and got onto her knees. All she could perceive was that they were in some sort of cave. No, the ground was sand. She could hear waves behind her, far back in a cave mouth, but all around her were mossy stone walls that went up, up to a ceiling made of a clear sky. The morning sunlight spotlighted them on the white sand.

Coming to herself, she turned to the body beside her. She took hold of his shoulder in concern and was responded to by a cringe and a groaned curse as he slowly turned himself onto his back. White sand granules clung to his wet clothes and face. He hadn't shaved since she'd picked him up in Mexico and his scraggly half beard was dark against his paling skin. "What the hell was I thinking?" he moaned.

"I'd like to know the answer to that myself," Annamaria scolded.

He threw an arm over his bandaged face, the white sleeve of the renaissance style cotton shirt she'd given him to wear rippling slightly in a breeze that was coming from the mouth of the …cave, canyon? It had been in her trunk on board and when he'd run out of shirts to bleed on she'd reluctantly handed it over. Ended up she didn't regret it, because combined with his growing scruffyness, it made him look more like Jack.

After pulling her eyes from him she studied their surroundings further. How the hell were they supposed to get out of here? She looked over her shoulder and saw the tunnel that lead to the cave mouth, about thirty feet back, presumably how they'd gotten in. If they tried to go out that way they'd get killed: pummeled against the rocks. She could hear the crash of powerful waves as they surged into the opening and sucked out again. The walls around them were equally as hazardous. They stuck out in brittle shelves and were covered in slick, hanging moss. She could tell there was the edge of a jungle at the top, but no vines reached down the hundred feet to the bottom.

She looked at her companion in this prison. "Every damned time, I swear to the gods, all of them. Every damned time I follow you _anywhere_…."

…

Sands, Jack, whoever he was, lay listening to her, then slowly sat up despite the pain radiating from the gunshot wounds that still plagued him. He could remember how he got them, why he got them, but it felt like a different world that shouldn't have such an impact on his present state. He scooped up a handful of sand and let it pour between his fingers. "The only woman for me…" he muttered, dusting off his hands, he proceeded to knock the sand from the rest of him. With protesting muscles he stumbled to his feet.

His brain felt like a radio dial stuck between stations. It had been that way for hours before taking that dive. Why couldn't he see? …Oh, right.

He felt around with a foot and found a reasonably smooth rock to sit on. God, his head hurt. His body twitched from the beginning of morphine withdrawal. But it wouldn't be too strong, he hadn't been using that much, but had been half a day since he'd stuck himself. His head suddenly filled with memories, flashes of his life in the Seventies. There was a year or two there… dark times. He quit the band and took a vacation to the gulf again (much like after the first World War). Then, he'd gone back inland to start life again, this time under the name Sheldon Jeffery Sands.

"Where in the hell are we?" Annamaria's voice demanded.

He grabbed his head. "Jesus, how the fuck should I know? Stop yelling, please."

Annamaria was taken aback. She honestly hadn't been expecting a reply after his day of silence. She eyed him suspiciously.

"And don't give me that look. I know that look even if I can't bloody see it."

Now she felt even more surprise. "Jack?"

"…I don't know," was the disappointing answer. "By the way, where are we?"

He could hear her grind her teeth.

"I mean _describe_ it to me, not point it out on a map," he said, then added in under his breath: "Don't get your panties in a bunch."

She held her tongue, but he was lucky the Webley was wet and useless at the moment. "Well, we appear to be in a sandbox at the bottom of a very tall rock tunnel." He gave her a skeptical look and a tilt of his head. "I don't know how to describe it. Maybe a sinkhole that fell into an old ocean cave? Anyway, we're about seventy feet down without any obvious exit. I assume we came in through the mouth of the old cave, which is the source of that annoyingly loud crashing sound, and is half submerged with some rather intimidating rocks around it. Our cell is about ten by twenty feet." She sat down next to him on the rock with a defeated huff. "What I would like to know, is _why_ we're here. Did you _have_ a reason for leaping blindly into the deep blue sea from a moving ship?"

"I saw something."

She turned her head to look at him.

"I know, I know it's crazy. But I did."

She stood up. "Calypso!" she yelled up at the patch of sky over their heads, guessing this was all her doing. "CALYPSO! What is it you want from us!"

Jack/Sands covered his ears with his sweating palms and remained still on his stone perch. "You did come along on your own accord," he reminded her.

She glanced at him. "She knew I'd follow you. She meant to get both of us."

…

They sat for what seemed to be an hour of silence, but couldn't be, for the large circle created by the light as it came through the top of the sinkhole had only moved a few inches. Suddenly, Jack/Sands began to tear at the bandages on his face.

Annamaria stood up again, this time in surprise. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" His fingers clawed at the back, pulling the knot apart.

"Don't, you'll-"

But he pulled the tape and padding off, flinging them into the sand. "What? Make you uncomfortable?"

"No," she replied. "You'll risk infection. Who knows when we'll get back to-"

"It's come to my attention," he cut her off again and also getting to his feet, "That though we've both had a sip from this _lovely_ little fountain, you're still treating me like a _normal human_. If I remember correctly, and stop me if I'm wrong, but I haven't had so much as a _cold_ in the past two and a half centuries." He paused both in his speech and in his slow circling of her. She didn't say anything, but she understood. And he was right. Years of battlefields and wounds and she'd never gotten an infection either. But she was so used to her comrades getting them that it had only been second nature to assume Jack ran the same risk.

"So, I'm right."

"Yes."

"Ha!" He found a shelf of slate to lean against and smiled. The shelf cracked and the smile disappeared as it broke and he caught himself as his shoulder hit the uneven wall of rock. Trying to pretend nothing had happened, he straightened up. Annamaria smirked. "So," he continued, "That's settled then. Now, next problem: how in the hell are we going to get out of here?"

He seemed to be coming around after his little bout with muteness. But who was coming around? He remembered his true past, apparently, but was this Jack, or just a fresh incarnation of Sands?


	36. Painful Transitions

**Things are going to be very busy 'round here for a while (internships and co-writing scripts can do that). We shall see how many times I can update this in the next month. I only plan on there being 3-4 more chapters and an epilogue, but I've told myself that before….**

**I'm amending the deepness of the hole they're in to 30 feet after realizing how deep I had it before. I'll correct it in the last chapter some other time.**

**So here's the "I don't own these three/four characters I'm just borrowing them for a little fun" bit. That was it. Kay. Though I think I can say I own the transitional character between Sands and Jack. He'd kinda become his own entity.**

Chapter 36: Painful Transitions

He could feel the beginning of a migraine eating at the front of his skull and his stomach was already being assailed by cramps. Sunk so deep in pain made it difficult to concentrate on anything, and not being able to see anything to concentrate on made it ten times worse.

_Focus, damnit_!

On what?

"Speak," he begged Annamaria, though he hoped he didn't sound as desperate as he felt.

"About what?" he heard her reply. She was closer than he'd thought.

"Tell me everything that's around us, every little detail. If we want to get out of here, I have to know it all."

Gather intelligence, information. Talk to the people who know the facts and use them to you advantage. He knew how to do this. He'd always known how to do this. This was survival.

He felt his body shaking, the sweat on his forehead and palms. The muscles in his back ached and a particularly strong stomach cramp drained the blood from his face.

But she was talking.

Rise above the pain. Focus on her voice. Remember torture training. Morphine withdrawal was nothing compared to bamboo under the fingernail. Piece of cake.

"Well, there are vines, but by the time they reach us down here they're too thin to use as rope. I can see a few branches overhead, but they're a few feet above the opening….are you alright?"

He felt a hand on his shoulder, firm but gentle, very unlike the stone he now found himself leaning against. He didn't know if he could talk, so he just nodded his heavy head.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked. "You're twitching and pale and…." she ran a hand over his forehead. "And you're sweating but have goose bumps…." He flinched at having been touched so close to his eye sockets. By the tone of her voice, she'd caught on.

She'd seen this before, so many times before. "Jesus, Jack." She sighed. She knew he drank too much sometimes, but it hadn't occurred to her that he might have picked up an opiate habit in the past. And she'd given him the morphine. "I'm an idiot," she whispered.

"_I'm_ an idiot," she heard him repeat. "But I've been through this before, and it wasn't much. In a day the worst will be over and will only matter to my head. Now, start tearing down those pathetic little vines. It's time for a bit of a ponder."

He sank to the sand as she started to harvest the vines.

Now, where the hell was Calypso?

….

Meditation. The best way to deal with nonmedicated pain and other things beyond your control. Oddly enough, it was made easier by blindness. He put all his energy into twining the thin vines together into rope strong enough to hold one of them.

In four hours, he had about 10 feet. Annamaria had 15 more. After two more hours, she gave up on hooking it on something at the mouth of the hole. He'd continued to twine as she vainly threw the rope again and again. When she gave up, he had 5 more feet and bleeding fingers.

"We need 20 more feet," he said as she sat down with a groan.

"_Twenty_? We barely had enough for _this_ thrity!"

He grinned at her. "You could lift me up on your shoulders."

"_That'll_ work," she said sarcastically. "My arms are killing me from all this stupid throwing anyway. And I'm starving. Are you hungry?"

The last time he'd eaten had been some time yesterday, and considering the state of his stomach, it probably wasn't a bad thing. "Not very," he said simply. "But if you're going to the store, could you pick me up a pair of glasses?"

"Very funny."

He could hear her moving around and in a few minutes he could smell wood smoke. "What's for lunch?"

"There's plenty of sea weed in that cave."

He shuddered. "I'll stick to stored fat, thanks. But a drink would be lovely. It's getting hot in here."

"The sun is high. We should probably retreat to the cave for a few hours after I'm done eating so your pale self doesn't burn."

"Groovy."

….

Annamaria kept staring at him in the three hours they sat in the shade of the cave mouth listening to the surf and waiting for the sun to set on the western side of the hole overhead. He lay stretched on a large smoothed stone, asleep, she supposed. His face was turned toward her, but the backlight made it easy to pretend the shadows above his cheeks were only closed eyelids covering a pair of dark brown eyes. To think the last time she'd looked him in the eye was over a year ago in Texas, because every time she'd seen him in Mexico before the incident, he'd been wearing those fucking sunglasses. She supposed she'd have to get used to the sunglasses now.

When the sun passed far enough that the bottom of their hole was in shade, Annamaria returned to work on the rope, leaving "Jack" to sleep…if that was what he was doing. Every so often he'd stir, or cringe, or writhe a bit, and it made her flinch whenever he did. Morphine withdrawal isn't a pleasant thing, but he seemed to be dealing well enough himself and she wasn't about to interfere. Jack had an addictive personality, but also a resilient one. She wondered what it had been: opium, heroin, or maybe morphine itself during the Great War. She knew he'd been in the European theater as a freelance reporter for part of the war, but had he been hit? Maybe, if he got back to normal, she'd find out. She had a feeling she'd be spending more time with him as he…adjusted.

She braided vines, staring at his back.

….

The air was cooling. He could feel it on every inch of his skin. He conserved his energy, laying there, listening to Annamaria working nearby. She'd started the fire again as the night drew down on them. He could smell the smoke, hear the crackle of flames consuming fuel. There must have been some old driftwood, or else he hadn't a clue what she'd be burning. He hoped it wasn't part of their boat – her boat. He'd grown to like that little ship, to understand its subtle sounds. It would be a shame to lose it already.

Slowly, he sat up. He could tell she paused in her work, but a moment later she started again without a word. Good. He felt somewhat peaceful, the symptoms of his weakness surprisingly faint now. Leaning against the wall, he tried to order his mind. It wasn't as bad as the morning. No more screwed up radio dials, but he could remember things now. Remember faces, voices, and their names, but they still felt as hollow and flat as the house he'd convinced himself he'd grown up in, the photograph without an interior. The images, the outline, with nothing behind them.

If Annamaria weren't with him now, is that how he would see her? Quite possibly. He dug his fingers into the soft, fine sand beneath him and wondered what color it was. He'd say white. How was it he understood and connected with this sediment more than with any person in his past? It wasn't right to feel such a distance from it, and he hated that he felt that way. Things still weren't right. Something had to kick in, he wasn't himself yet, he could tell.

The sun was setting.

….

Her breathing was slow and steady. He whispered a question she didn't answer. He guided himself by the heat and crackle of the fire. The rope was coiled beside her. He took a few minutes to intertwine it with the rest of the rope left over from earlier that day, and counted the length diligently. Just over 50 feet.

….

His wounds burned like they were being probed with red-hot pokers as his muscles mindlessly worked. The fibers of the rope encircled the stone weight on the end like sinews. He swung around like a shot-putter. A twist. A blind heave from arms that probably shouldn't have been able to lift themselves, and the weighted end of their rope sailed toward the sky.

Annamaria was awaked by his shuffling just in time to stare in disbelief as the rock traveled up. Over the branch it went, as if guided by some unseen force. As it descended, so did the man who'd thrown it. He landed with a thud, his back on the sand beside the fire. "Not so useless," he said after coughing a few times.

Annamaria grabbed the rope and shook it until the rock came down within reach. "You really can do the impossible sometimes." She cracked a smile wider than she had in weeks. This was good, she like this.

He began to get off the ground like an arthritic old man, so she took his good shoulder and hauled him up.

"_Improbable_," he corrected her, waving a finger in her face and she steadied him, then grabbing his arm right below the bullet wound and cringed for a moment.

"Aye, Captain," she replied.

"Like the sound of that."

"You always di- have."

"Have I?"

She released his arm. He heard her jingling something metal and her hand turned his over and placed a few little warm objects into it. Four. He felt them. Rings. Instinctively, he knew which fingers they went on. He flexed his hands and held them up to the fire despite not being able to see them. "That's nice," he said in a somewhat distant voice. Familiar. It was nice to feel something familiar.

Two hands gently held his face then, and he suddenly felt a rush of unexpected adrenaline as Annamaria gave him something else familiar. "That's very nice," he said when he could talk again.

But his body was done for the day, and he found himself on the sand again a moment later. Getting out of the hole would have to wait 'till morning.


	37. Escape

**Before you ask: yes, they did just sleep. Sorry about the lack of action in this one.**

Chapter 37: Escape

He awoke feeling exceedingly better than he had the night before. Of course he was still trying to get used to not knowing if he was really awake or not. He waited a minute, keeping still in order to regain his bearings. With surprise he realized he hadn't had any nightmares. No torture, frustration, reproaches for the stupidity that lost him his eyes. No getting sucked down deep dark holes (he could still see in his sleep).

Another minute and he was surprised further upon thee discovery that the thing beside him was breathing.

He smirked and must have made some sort of brief laugh because she stirred and lifted her head.

….

"It's kind of late," Annamaria observed as she looked up at their patch of blue sky. Remembering were she was and what was going on, she sat up and spotted the rope that her fellow prisoner had so miraculously thrown into place a few hours before. Standing up, she took hold of one end of it and laughed. "Give me Liberty or give me Death," she quoted.

"Liberty, preferably," he added. "I'd like to get a few more… centuries in."

She watched him hard as he slowly got up. The physical resistance to the movement was almost painful to watch, but his face showed grim determination under a thin smile. He caught himself twice before successfully balancing on his feet.

"So, what's the plan?" she asked.

"The plan? Quite simple." He pulled the white renaissance shirt up and over his head gently. "This, as comfortable as it is, is going to be sacrificed for the greater good." He tied a knot at the bottom of the torso and the ends of the sleeves. Then, he passed it to her with the command "fill 'er up."

"With what?"

"Rocks. Sand. All things heavy."

She cursed under her breath at the destruction of one of her favorite possessions.

"What are _you_ going to do?" she asked.

"Try to keep from dieing of dehydration," he replied honestly.

….

A little salt wouldn't hurt, in fact it would be a good thing. Just enough water to make it up the rope. Then, if they were lucky, they could find a fresh water stream.

After so long of planning five steps ahead that being restricted to one by one was aggravating.

….

Annamaria finished filling the shirt. She sat it on the rock/boulder they'd used as a seat when they first arrived, and he instructed her to loop the rope under the sand-filled arms, which he then bound to the sides.

"Now," he said, "Help me lift it."

They both heaved on the rope until the shirt, looking like a bloated torso, was a good 25 feet in the air.

"Okay, not, let go on three."

"_What_?" Maybe he was still nutty.

"Trust me."

She snorted a laugh. "Yeah. Okay."

And they let go on three. But he grabbed on again, and jumped. The shirt probably weighted a 100 pounds, and its momentum lifted him about 15 feet. Annamaria, thinking fast, turned and grabbed the shirt were it hung, keeping it from going back up.

"Beautiful! Smart Woman! You've undoubtedly caught on," he called down. "Now," he added, more to himself. "This would be a terribly idiotic way to die after coming so far." But his arms were already killing him and he could feel the muscles in his hands quivering. As he had done so many times before -- at the Farm and in the rigging—he wrapped his legs around the rope and began to climb.

"It's only fifteen feet. It's only fifteen feet," he repeated to himself again and again. _I've gone a hundred before on a rope, what the hell's fifteen feet?_ Distract yourself.

….

A short break. He really only had one good arm and it was getting weak. He estimated he had about seven feet left to go. How long had it been? Seven feet. Only a foot taller than so many men he knew. He could remember an age when he was considered tall. Now he was on the lower end of average. "Hector," he muttered to himself, "You were a bloody colossus." He started to inch toward the sky again, every _inch_ of _him_ in revolt.

It took him near a half hour to make the branch, including two short breaks. When healthy, he could make that distance in under a minute, easy. Good-for-nothing bodily limitations. When he felt the rough branch under his hand he sighed. Then took a deep breath and using what was left of his strength, hauled himself onto it sideways to lay on it like a spirit bow.

He panted for a minute while Annamaria stared up at him in mixed fear and relief.

"Okay." He'd evidently caught his breath. "If you'd like, cut down our sandy friend, and I'll lower the rope and tie it off."

It only took a minute to empty the sand from the shirt, the seams were already close to bursting. She frowned as she watched it pour out like a broken hourglass spilling its guts on the ground. She turned her attention back to the branch and saw him, weakly, tying a perfect sailor's knot.

"A sailor's hands never forget," she said to herself as she hopped up on the braded vine.

"And I'll just lay here…until you get up here," He said.

Truth was, he wasn't sure he could move. Every muscle felt tight around his bones and chances were if he made a mistake his reflexes wouldn't be able to catch him before he fell back into that sand ring of hell. And a second escape would never come.

But Annamaria was beside him in no time.

"Hey there, Speedy Gonzalez," he said as she hung from the top of the rope.

"Racist," she replied, but he could tell by her tone that she was smiling.

"Speedy Gonzalez is an integral part of American society," he rambled, buying rest.

"Yeah? Well, you're British, Senor Gringo."

"200 years say otherwise. I can't help it you never chose a country to ally."

Suddenly, her face was a lot closer. "Pirate," she said simply. She wasn't smiling anymore.


	38. The World Grows Weirder

Chapter 38: The World Grows Weirder

If it had been anyone else watching they wouldn't have noticed the weak shaking his body was doing at the slightest effort. He hid it well, but she'd been observing people for near 300 years and he wasn't fooling her.

It was going to take a great effort to get him off this perch.

….

He hadn't liked the way she'd said 'pirate,' like some kind of insinuation. "He'd gone privateer," it said. The CIA might disagree with that: rogue agent. But when had the opinion of the rest of the world started to matter?

With amazing effort he lifted himself into a sitting position and patted the branch beside him. He felt Annamaria wriggle up next to him and settle on the branch. From a distance they might have looked like two children in a climbing tree.

"Chide me if you like," he said with his Cheshire grin in place. "But it's often _incredibly_ useful to have an ignorant ally. Almost as useful as a _smart_ one, in fact. And often less of a risk. I've been able to do some _delightfully_ interesting things in the last decade because of it. The stimulation has been wonderful after such a long time." He tapped his temple.

"Yeah, and it's really paid off, hasn't it?" she asked critically.

….

She paused as she realized something. "Jesus." She muttered, "I've been doing the same damned thing." She'd been addicted to war for a century, moving from one revolution to the next. None of it had been for the causes, it had been for the battles, the adrenaline. She didn't know how else to live anymore.

He stared at her with his phantom eyes. "We need a vacation."

"Well, if we ever get out of this tree, I know just the place."

Annamaria grabbed the rope, shuffled over to land and tied it around the base of the tree that their branch belonged to. Now he could sit on the rope and scoot over to the land, which would be a hell of a lot easier than hanging free, and a lot safer than doing a blind balance beam act. When he was almost there, she felt a presence behind her. The hair on the back of her neck prickled up and she turned to meet golden eyes.

Calypso brushed by her and took his wrist from where his hand clung to the wide branch. He stared at her, his mouth open. "You!" he breathed. Annamaria saw Sands in the look of bewilderment that crossed his face, but in only a moment it was replaced by Jack's smirk, slowly curling up the side of his face. "Long time no see."

"You can _see_ her?"

"Of course 'im can see me," Calypso crooned. "You know bet'er dan to limit me to da mortal senses." She then lifted him up and sat him on the earth with little effort. When she released him, his body shifted in the attempt to stay upright.

"You 'aven't avoided trouble on land, Jack," she continued. "I am not so fond of your new name. Why don cha come 'ome?" Her fingers traced up his face, her weird smile broadening.

"That was the plan," Annamaria said as if to remind the woman shaped being she was there too, feeling the temptation to step between the two of them. He was in no condition to be facing such a force. Even as Calypso's hand slid away form him, his face slackened to expose the exhaustion he'd been so adamant in covering up for the last day.

The goddess finally looked at her.

"And why'd you toss us in a pit if you're so damned happy to see us?"

That aggravating, knowing grin stayed on her face. "I only wanted to see if ya were who you looked ta be."

This made Annamaria pause.

"Time isa strange t'ing. I did not know if you were still mine, or if the land 'ad claimed ye. Da world 'as grown weirder in da realm of da 'uman." Her face fell. "So many 'ave forgotten I was their mu'der fer a time…."

"Give yourself some credit. You aren't such an easy supernatural entity to get over," he said from her shoulder. Her smile grew back as she returned her attention to him.

"Bu' wha 'ave they done to you?"

"What has he done to himself," Annamaria grumbled to herself.

Calypso's hands, dark against his pale face, reached up and placed her palms very lightly over his wounds. His trembling stopped after a moment. She closed her eyes, grit her teeth and applied a soft pressure. Liquid began to drip from under her palms and trickled between her fingers. His mouth opened in acute pain, pleasure, or both. The liquid, which started out as a yellow/brown color, changed to a blood-tinted pink, then to clear. When her hands finally left him, he sank to his knees on the muddy sand of the island, gasping from release. He coughed up some water.

Annamaria knelt beside him, almost expecting him to look at her with his eyes again… but they were not there. The sockets no longer looked painful and irritated, but the orbs were still absent. Disappointed, and angry for it, she looked up at the goddess. "what did you do?"

"They will no longer 'urt 'im," she replied. "And, one day, 'im will 'ave eyes again."

"They'll… grow back?"

"No," she smiled faintly. "Be patient. Give your fellow 'umans time. Your powers are greater than you know. As I said: Da world grows weirder.

Annamaria stood back up. "So you can't _do_ anything? You send us storms and throw us in pits so you can… can give his sockets a _sterile rinse_!

She could see Calypso's eyes literally glow with anger. "Da t'is not al I can do." For a second Annamaria felt fear pierce her, but she stood her ground. If there was one thing the goddess respected, it was a will as strong as her own.

Then Jack came to her aid.

"Anna," they heard him say from the ground. Annamaria nearly jumped when she heard her 'nickname' come out of him. "Please don't antagonize the nice witch." He rose, apparently recovered from whatever pain he'd been in. He turned to face her as if looking her straight in the eye.

"Do you feel it, Jack?"

"What does she mean?"

He turned to face Calypso, leaning in with that particular sway of his. "_Acutely_," he answered her softly, both grinning in their secretive, feline fashion.

"Good."


	39. Funeral for an Empty Box

Chapter 39: Funeral for an Empty Box

The riflemen fired into the air, breaking the silence of the gathered parties. The loud _crack_ brought Body on his toes and the tips of his nerves. He had to shake his senses back to normal as the expected following shots rang out over the fields around them.

The gathering was small, and only the secretary from the head office had teary eyes.

It was a beautiful day in DC; cool, a breeze carrying a few thin clouds over the sun, their shadows playing on the cold stones. Amazing weather for March.

After several months of searching and cursing, the CIA had thrown in the towel, grabbed enough eye witnesses to the fall of their lost agent, and, without a family to provide closure to, simply changed Sheldon Jeffery Sands' file from MIA to Deceased.

Brody was depressed. He didn't know about the quick shuffling and filing away of Sands' 'death', but he did have a feeling they really didn't look too hard for him. From the grape vine of old friends still in the Company, Brody had heard stories that Sands had lost communications with his handler on the Day of the Dead, and never made contact again. Some said he'd been captured and tortured, others said he killed people he wasn't supposed to kill, and then disappeared off all radars. Whatever had happened, Brody somehow knew he'd never see the man again. As standoffish and rude as Sands could be, he'd more than once seen some weird kind of soul in his eyes that Brody couldn't help but respect, and it would make his life a hell of a lot less interesting with him gone.

Everyone cleared off as the sounds of the rifles dissipated. He even heard laughter as a group of three ambled toward the cars.

Brody walked to the hole and stared down at the box that held nothing. "Well, you finally managed to get yourself killed, you crazy bastard. The sharks got you."

The box didn't reply.

A weird chill went up his spine as a hand gently touched his shoulder. He jumped and turned with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry if I startled you, sir." One of the uniformed men from the service stood behind him with a folded American Flag. He held the triangle of folded material out in front of him. "He had no family, and I can't help but notice you're the only one left."

Brody looked at the man, confused, then glanced down at the flag and it dawned on him what was being asked.

"Oh, I-" suddenly he felt as if he might actually cry. He coughed the lump from his throat. "Oh, right. Yes. Of course," He stammered. He held out his hands and the red white and blue was pressed into them.

He stood there, staring at the flag until even the oddly familiar red Monte Carlo had left and he was the only living person in the cemetery. He stayed by the grave for a full half an hour just wondering what all had happened to Agent Sheldon Jeffery Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency.

Then, he climbed into his car and pointed the hood down the long trail home to San Antonio, the flag in the passenger seat.


	40. Costa Rica

Chapter 40: Costa Rica

The air was humid, the sun scorching, and the water was coming in for high tide. I lay stretched out on a part of the beach that wasn't under water yet with my arms folded back under my head so as to hear the waves better and let the hot sand bake me. The waves were like clockwork, like a heartbeat. When Annamaria had said she had a perfect vacation spot, she's meant it. But vacation was over, at least this bit anyway. We had plans. Mostly Europe and the UK. And lots of open water before that.

I could _feel_ the movement in the building up the beach. It was like a humming, a vibration in my brain. My senses were heightened. Calypso had given me a gift. I had no idea what the payback would be, but I tried not to think about it. Obstacles will arise, persist, and be overcome.

And _I_ could see the ocean.

Well, not the ocean exactly. More like a _glow_, the_ energy_ of the ocean, if you will. When Ananmaria and I emerged form the trees on that little island of ours was when I first saw it: a bright blue phantom sea stretching to the horizon. I must say, for a moment I couldn't breathe.

Good ol' Tai Dalma pulled a real Deus ex machina. She's really outdone herself. While in my head she also managed to give things a little re-shuffle. Set things straight again. Everything and everyone in their place, so to speak.

A pair of footsteps stopped near my left ear and I turned to face them.

"I've got all our stuff in the car," Anamaria said. "Let's get going." I sat up and pulled something from the front pocket of my button-up Hawaiian shirt. It was apparently black and yellow, and Anamaria said it annoyed the hell out of her… which just made it all the more necessary.

"Seen any mailboxes around?" I asked.

I could tell she was staring down at the postcard. "I'm sure the front desk would send it… who are you writing to?"

I got to my feet and began retracing my footsteps to the door of the hotel's back hallway. "That's none of you're business," I answered in a sing-song tone as I opened the door and stepped inside.

I dropped my note off at the front desk and we made our way to the circle drive to pick up the car. She never let me drive.

.

.

.

Brody didn't check his mail often anymore. There was never anything interesting. Usually he just dropped all the bills and ads on the kitchen counter and ignored them until something showed up in the goldenrod shade and threatened to shut off his utilities.

Today he sat in his living room staring at TV. Some western about the Alamo was on and it was feeling more and more familiar as the plot progressed, but he still couldn't remember the name of it for the life of him.

During the commercial break he let his eyes wander the room. They landed on the tower of envelopes stacked on the counter, which was in the arched partition window that separated the kitchen from the living room. Something colorful stuck out of the dull stack. He'd probably thought it was an ad when he'd pulled it from the mailbox, but now he thought otherwise. It looked like a postcard.

Who would send _him_ a postcard?

Standing from the recliner he'd been residing in, a Sergio Leonesque soundtrack played him to the couch in front of the window. Leaning on his good knee over the back of the couch he pinched the postcard and shook it very carefully, attempting to keep the whole pile upright. Just as it cleared though, a large envelope on top capsized and brought the top half of the tower raining down on the couch.

Brody signed.

"You really believed that would work, didn't you?" quoted the film behind him. He glared over his shoulder at the character on screen, but the character was paying attention to the protagonist, not him, so he returned to his business. Ignoring the clutter around him, he turned and sat down on the couch and studied the front of the glossy postcard.

A beautiful beachfront sunset, the sun reflecting off the sand. In the bottom right corner in a sunshine yellow script it read "Captan Suzico Hotel on the Beach." He harrumphed. No wonder he'd though it was an ad.

Turning it over he read the postmark. Costa Rica. The card was a month old, meaning it had come in March. A tight scroll with occasional overlapping letters ran in a downward slant across the designated writing space, running over into the address box in a few places. He turned the light on next to the couch and squinted (he needed glasses, but was in denial).

_Alexander the Greatest Cripple,_

_Hope the Cunts In Action haven't roasted your nuts about me. Everything you've heard is true, unless it was particularly good, then it's a lie. Annamaria, you remember Anna, says "hi," but you know what I say (a crude picture of a hand with middle finger raised)._

_Don't do anything I wouldn't, _

_The Bastard_

_PS Don't write back, as I won't be here. And don't tell anyone, or I shall be forced to hunt you down like a dog and blow you to fucking Broadway._

Out of shock, Brody had to read it twice. Then, he threw back his head, and laughed. And it was be best laugh he'd had in a long time.

**This end part actually slightly borrows from another OUTIM fic where Sands writes to Agent Remirez, who, if I remember right, thinks Sands was dead. I read it a while ago. Mostly the "Cunts In Action" and middle finger bit are what I lifted and want to credit.**

**This is not the end! There is an Epilogue still to come!**


	41. Epilogue: Life on Mars And Beyond

Epilogue: Life on Mars…and Beyond

After several weeks on the west coast of Costa Rica, many of them spent camped out near the beach while living out of my old Jeep, we headed to Europe almost on a whim. I myself had never been so far north through all my travels. I've always felt rooted to the South West hemisphere, but when Jack insisted, who was I to deny him?

I dry-docked the Sparrow in the Florida Keys and had the Jeep shipped and put in storage. We took a cruse from Miami to the coast of France, then Chunneled back over to the UK. Normally neither of us would spend so frivolously, but we figured our Swiss Bank accounts (the only way an ageless person can keep funds w/o being suspicious) were big enough for an extended vacation before slipping into new identities for another lifetime. I was delighted when Jack's accent returned from its 150 year hiatus as the weeks passed in the British Isles. We went to a few museums for the laughs and every so often Jack would describe something he'd seen or done as a journalist there during the second World War. I discovered that's where he'd picked up the Webley, an older gun even then. Sometimes his expression didn't seem to know whether to be sad or happy during these discussions, and I'd sense a bit of Sands' cynical shell around him for a while afterward.

After a few months we toured the continent, staying longer in Amsterdam, Paris, and Madrid, then veering east, over the Mediterranean way. This weather was more to my warm blood's liking. We continued on until the money in both our accounts dwindled. It was a late night in a pub in Constantinople (sorry, "_Istanbul"_) when we knew our outing would have to end.

All my connections were back west in South America, and Jack still couldn't go back to the US. So, two days later, I was on a plane to Brazil and he jumped a train and headed toward Paris because, he told me, he "liked the smell of it."

We'd been together for two years, the longest stint since out first lives, and I wouldn't see him again for a hundred years. As much as he'd proven he was capable of survival in our time together, I still felt deeply worried about him on some nights. His ability to sense the world around him to an eerie degree was not full compensation for sight in my opinion, and I would wonder where he was. Sometimes my heart would freeze at the thought that I might be the only one in the world in my…condition. I remembered the horrible fear that had struck me when I'd pulled his body off the street in Culiacan. I'd yelled at him not to leave me alone. There was no way I could outlive Jack Sparrow, was there?

As the years passed by, I watched as what Calypso had said about the power of humans came to pass. I took my fist trip to the moon in 2067. Mars sprouted cities in 2095. And plans were underway for developing Jupiter's moon Europa, once the distance could be more efficiently crossed. I bought my first personal spacecraft in 2100, and as fate would have it, so did Jack.

2108 found me cruising from the Lunar to the Martian Colonies, just to see what they were like. Despite the advantage of not aging, such long distance travel could get dull after a few days, so I was just still shaking off suspended animation in the cockpit, when a fire-apple red craft came out of nowhere on my left. The fist thought in my sleep addled brain was that it looked like a sporty muscle car version of a Rebel X-Wing Fighter from those century old Star Wars films only with a wider body, the second was "why the hell is this bastard flying so close to me?" I cold clearly see a cattle skull and crossed swords painted on the side in black.

"Someone's daddy has money," I mumbled. Then it maneuvered deftly around me once, got in my way and turned an illegal gun turret on me that had deployed from under the cabin. My adrenaline woke me up and my shock turned to anger.

"So _that's_ how it's gonna be, _hijo de puta_?" I hissed. What a way to start a day: a hold up. I pressed the camouflaged button that deployed my own hidden weapons. I'm not an idiot.

For a moment neither of us moved. This was international space. If this fight started, it would only end when one of us gave up our ship and begged for mercy, or when one blew the other to hell. We faced off for a long thirty seconds. Did this guy really think my personal craft was worth the effort now that he knew it was armed? Or was it less the prize and more the excitement he was after? A drop of Nelson's blood, you might say?

I fired a warning shot over his bow to get him going and felt a demented smile curl up my face. The red craft shifted right, then swung over my head in a flash. I shot forward, but my heart wasn't in escape; I wanted to get this pompous ass. I felt a blast on my tail shield and spun and fired back at him before he knew what was coming. He caught it on his back as he dove below me and rammed my back end and I went pitching forward. His ship was made for this sort of thing and a newer model than mine. This prick was really getting on my nerves. Catching myself out of the roll, I fired wildly. He dodged and spun and came up beside me faster than I could react. Our shields bumped.

"What are you doing you piece of-"

Something was fired into my side. "Shit!" I finished as my shield fell on my left and something new jostled my craft. I looked at my left side camera. He'd launched grapples into my side. I tried jumping forward, but he offered no resistance so all I achieved was moving us both, which in the vacuum of space is as good as not moving at all.

I glared at the mirrored cockpit beside me and fingered the gun on my hip. I could really use some back-up.

Suddenly, the ship hailed me.

"On screen," I growled in contempt after a moment's contemplation. A corner of my "windshield" lit up to show the cockpit of my enemy.

"Surrender your craft, and its cargo," a man's voice said from off screen, "and I'll consider letting you go in a pod near Mars." A torso wearing a brown duster style coat momentarily blocked the camera. It moved back and the man sat down and kicked a pair of ancient combat boots up on the dash. A head wearing a tri-corner hat and a pair of dark sunglasses looked into the camera. After a moment I saw his body jolt, then he was right up in the camera screen. "Holy mother of Sugar Cane!" he breathed. I was too pissed at first to take anything in, but as that mouth broke into a grin, my heart stopped.

"You evil little money," I whispered. Over the initial shock, I stood up and leaned into the camera as well, pointing at him as if I might poke him in the chest through the screen. "You're paying for the damage you did my ship."

"Only if you pay for the repairs to the Pearl," Jack replied with raised eyebrows.

"Deal."

We docked in New Hong Kong the next day.

….

New Hong Kong is the ultimate in manufactured cities. The whole damned thing is like Blade Runner on speed. Engineered by the Japanese, built and funded by China, then people were imported and the circus began. On Earth they say life on Mars is like the living bastard afterbirth of science fiction and noir.

The Martian colonies are as dirty and degenerate as the Lunar ones are sterile and orderly. Some claim it's seeing two moons at night that really screws with the human mind, and god knows there are plenty of fucked up people on Mars. The place is chaos.

I love chaos.

When I exited the docking bay (which despite what every 20th century novel would have you believe looks like little more than an air plane hanger) there stood Anna. She hurled and epithet no longer recognized by modern society by way of greeting, then ran up and planted a kiss on me I would not have claimed to deserve, but would never have turned down. Then she slapped me, and proceeded to wag a finder in my face while spouting off about the excellent display of piloting I'd demonstrated to her the day before. I grinned and bared it and when she was done she hugged me again and looked over my shoulder through the archway into the docking bay.

"The Red Pearl?" she asked, reading off the hull of my star ship.

"That's right," I said. "The Pearl's reincarnate. Or great x5 granddaughter perhaps. Haven't really decided."

When she stepped back she had an odd look on her face. She stared hard at my sunglasses and her hand reached out very slowly. When it was a few inches from my glasses I caught her wrist.

"Know this first," I said. "In 2060 I got the first new pair. They weren't pretty. Just two little red dots glowing in the back of the sockets." My free hand came up beside my face and I wiggled a finger like the stalked eye of a crab. "But bather intimidating if I do say so myself. These were the upgrade. Took the bandage off not a week ago." I released her hand. Now for a true judge of biotechnology's handy work.

For a moment her hand didn't move. Then she pulled them off fast, like removing a Band-Aide. She gasped and her hand immediately went to her mouth.

I blinked hard, squinted, and opened my eyes.

Tears were framing Annamaria's eyes and I had never been so happy to see again. She held my face and laughed through a constricted throat. "I- they- they look just like"

"That's because they are. The doctors went in there with their inconceivable little apparatuses and two months later 'Poof,' eyeballs. Produced from my very own DNA. After that, the lids were cake."

She turned my head back and forth in wonder. Then she tilted it forward and I closed my eyes as she kissed each lid carefully and embraced me once more in a way that felt deeper than before. We stood there am long minute before turning and heading toward the street level doors several stories below.

….

We got onto one of the elevator platforms and it carried us downward.

"What are you doing on Mars anyway?" I asked once I'd sufficiently recovered myself. I couldn't stop looking him in the eyes.

"I got the new peepers on the lunar side of all this," he said gesturing at the air port around us. "So I needed to spend time in a place I could enjoy properly. Sauna's don't agree with my… eccentricities."

"And you figured you'd make a little money on the way over?" I asked, referring to our meeting the day before.

He shrugged. "Space can get boring too. I'm also just seeing if someone I told to meet me here is going to show up."

"Who's that?" I asked.

He just smirked his conspiratorial smirk and didn't answer. "You ever been to New Hong Kong?" He asked after a minute as we hopped of the platform and approached the doors.

"No. I wasn't sure about the distance until I updated my engine last year."

He stepped to the side and took a hold of the door handle dramatically. "Well, the future is here Anna," he said. "And I have to say, it share some eerie similarities to the past." He swung the door in and light and sound erupted in at us. "Welcome to Tortuga, Love."

.

That day we partied like mad gods, or maybe super heroes, flaunting our lives perhaps more than we should have, but brawling without mishap. We acted like fools simply for the freedom of it in a world where nobody knew our faces and in a future where everyone was so absorbed with themselves that we didn't have to watch what we said. And after hours of playing catch-up and reminiscences Jack told me he had to show me something and we rented a convertible with a clear dome top and drove out toward the red deserts that extended beyond the city. He kept driving after we left the artificial atmosphere and we had to close the windows and turn on the air recycler. He kept checking the clock and looking at the sky as it dimmed above us. The sun was setting behind us. I watched the red landscape pass by. It reminded me of the desserts of New Mexico.

Finally, an hour out of the city, he pulled up to the edge of a crater canyon. The light in the sky was now fading fast. I asked what I was supposed to be looking at, but all he did was point to the horizon, holding his tongue for once in his life. He pulled a hidden bottle of rum out from under the seat. The clear dome of the convertible made me feel like I was outside. I leaned back in my seat and we passed the bottle back and forth as the light dimmed overhead.

Suddenly, I knew what we were looking at.

As the last of the light pulled from the sky like a sheet, points of light became visible. By every second they grew in number and intensity until they numbered in the billions. It was not a sunset we watched, but a galaxy rise. A night filled with 400 billion suns, the rising of the Milky Way. And it was brighter than any I'd seen on Earth since three hundred years before.

Jack glanced at me, and I him. He looked at those stars sprawl out before us and felt grins centuries old tugging at the corners of our mouths.

"Now," Jack said. I looked at him and new exactly what he was going to say, so I joined him: "Bring me _that_ horizon."

THE END


End file.
